


Soul of a Dragon

by Chalybeous (Chalybeousite)



Series: A North-Wind in Skyrim [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Character Death, Explicit Language, F/M, Murder, Past Torture, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-01 09:43:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 156,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4014967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chalybeousite/pseuds/Chalybeous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Happily ever after”: three lies for the price of one. They had fought Forsworn and Vampires, Ash spawn and Falmer, Draugr and Dragons. But with a rogue Thalmor trying to hunt them down, the threat of Alduin still hanging over their heads, and a madman sitting on the High King's Throne, it was hard for Gerhild and Vorstag to find anything bright and hopeful in their future. One thing was for certain: after all they’d been through, they’d face Fate together. Final book in my "A North-Wind in Skyrim" saga.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When We Get to Whiterun...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the final installment of my Gerhild/Vorstag saga! OMG This has blown into something so huge… 8O *ahem*
> 
> As with the other two stories, this is rated E, for smuttiness, some violence and gore, strongly emotional situations, and lots of language. If you've read the other two stories, you know how I write.
> 
> If you haven't already, I would suggest you read the other stories before reading this one (naturally, as I’m kinda proud of my writing, but also because a lot of stuff happens, and you might be a little lost at the start of this one if you haven’t read the first two).
> 
> And, as always and ever, thank you for Subscribing, Bookmarking, Commenting, and for the Kudos! Please, enjoy…

Two riders moved through the high grasses of the prairie, their horses setting a conservative yet mile-eating pace. Far to their left rose a range of mountains, tall and capped with white even in the middle of summer. To the east, the direction they rode, at nearly double the miles, rose the prominence of Whiterun surmounted by Dragonsreach. It was barely discernible at this distance, the sun setting behind them, their shadows stretching further and further before them. And for Gerhild, it was a beautiful sight.

A beautiful evening.

“There’s the road,” Vorstag called out over the sound of the horse’s hooves pounding the soil. “You wanna follow it?” he asked, thinking of how it veered south—a little out of their way—before heading for Whiterun, “Or keep cutting across the grasslands?”

Gerhild reigned in, studying the road and the countryside before them. They had been traveling across country, risking their horses’ limbs and their own necks over the uneven ground—it would be reckless to continue to do so with a perfectly paved road to follow. Besides, she was fairly sure there was a giant’s camp somewhere between them and Whiterun. And yet, though it would be faster traveling along the established road, there was a higher chance of running into bandits and robbers. Where Vorstag wore his Dawnguard armor—except his helmet stowed in his pack—she wore a serviceable linen dress of soft blue. Even though a dagger and a war axe, both of ebony, hung from her belt, she had no armor to protect her in a fight, and knew she’d have to let him handle any trouble single-handedly.

Then again, there was always the Dragon Shout that could infuse a supernatural dragon armor over her form, and increase the power of her Thu’ums and her skill with weapons.

“No, Gerhild,” he sighed, reading her thoughts.

“What?” she asked innocently, batting her deep violet eyes at him.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he harrumphed, “And you can forget about it. Don’t fight. Don’t even Shout. You’re not armored, remember?”

Her bow-shaped lips pouted prettily, and her eyes cast down demurely, but she gave him a nod. “Aye, I remember. But you remember that Shout…”

He nudged his horse into hers, causing her mare to shift and her to break off her words to focus on handling her mount. “No arguments.”

Apparently Vorstag felt the need to assert his manhood. Things were a little touchy between them, both of them feeling the urgent need to get to Whiterun. To get married. He was trying to do the honorable thing, and keep his hands off her until after the ceremony—except for that one night in Fort Snowhawk… Her cheeks still flushed with the merest memory of their shared passion.

Still, the tension was mounting, the urgency becoming painful, and tempers were growing short. “I understand, Vorstag. I’ll only use the Shout if I have to, and only to defend myself.”

He sat still for a moment, watching her, his soft brown eyes lost in deep thought. She felt his silence, and looked up from the study of her horse’s mane. She saw the look on his face, the concern and love and, aye, mutual frustration, but nothing rancorous was directed at her, only at their situation of self-imposed abstinence. Then he smiled suddenly, his hand reaching up to pat her cheek. “That’s a good girl.”

She laughed, the sound open and honest, ringing through the prairie. His voice and actions had been a perfect imitation of Ogmund, and the silliness and fondness of it broke the tension. “By the Nine, I love you, Vorstag.”

He reached over and kissed her, not too brief, definitely not long enough, but it was warm and full of love. “I love you, too. Let’s get going, down the road.”

“Down the road,” she agreed, nudging her horse to a walk beside his.

They hadn’t gotten far, the light fading into twilight, when he reigned his horse to a stop again. “Shit,” he breathed, instantly setting her on high alert, her senses stretching out into the furrows and creeks of the surrounding area. They were passing a small rock outcropping, and looking at it closely, squinting her eyes to try to pierce through the shadows, she saw movement.

“Lookee here,” a man dressed in branded iron armor jumped out onto the road in front of them, another climbing to the top of the rocks to aim a bow. “A nice young couple, traveling the king’s highway. Or a lady and her escort, perhaps. Don’t matter. You’ll pay the toll, if you wanna keep your heads on your shoulders.”

“Toll?” Vorstag asked, shifting his horse to place his armored torso between Gerhild and the archer. “Since when has there been a toll on this road?”

“Since we moved in here, what, three months ago?” he called out to his companion, who grunted some sort of agreement.

 _“Laas Yah Nir,”_ Gerhild Shouted, the sound barely reaching Vorstag’s ears and easily missed by the two bandits.

“How many?” he asked quietly, but she didn’t answer right away.

“Twenty septims,” the bandit answered, thinking he was asking about the toll.

“Gerhild?” Vorstag didn’t turn to look at her, but his head did twitch a little bit. She was taking far too long to answer. “How many are there?”

“Oh, ah…” her voice shook, sounding confused, distracted, unsure. “Two?”

“You gonna pay or do we fight?” the bandit took a step forward, his sword catching the first of the moonlight.

Vorstag didn’t question her, but drew his sword. “Don’t get shot.” Then he turned and quickly charged down the first bandit, standing stupidly in the road. The man was crushed beneath the horse’s hooves, his cries of pain loud and clear in the still night. Vorstag paid him no more mind and continued his charge to the outcropping.

The archer fired twice, both at Vorstag, one arrow missing wide and the other bouncing off the steel pauldron at his shoulder. He ignored the missiles, his concentration on pulling his feet out of the stirrups and carefully gauging the distance. At just the right moment, he leaped from the horse’s back and landed next to the archer. He shouted with fear, but Vorstag didn’t hesitate and cleanly ran him through.

After the dead body slid off his Dwarven sword, he turned back to see Gerhild still sitting her mount, staring down at the bandit in the road, her dagger buried deep in his eye socket.

“Gerhild, you alright?” he called, stooping to wipe off his blade.

She didn’t answer, but he didn’t notice right away, the blood still coursing through his veins after the brief skirmish. Damn, but he wished there were more around, just to bleed off some of the extra energy he felt. Instead he turned and tracked down his horse. A well-trained warhorse, it had only gone a small distance before stopping and waiting for its rider. “Damn. Remind me to send Vidrald a thank you note; that’s a fine mount he gave me.”

He heard her silence then, and as he walked back to the road, the reins of his horse in one hand, he looked a little closer at her. She sat astride her horse, her eyes staring around her, her head turning and tilting like she couldn’t quite understand what she was seeing. He bent over and retrieved her dagger, catching her attention as he handed it back to her. “You alright? You weren’t shot, were you? I tried to distract the archer…”

“No!” she said quickly, and realizing she had spoken perhaps a little too harshly or quickly, made and effort to calm herself a little. “No, Vorstag, I wasn’t harmed. Thank you.” She took the dagger back from him and, after wiping it off, sheathed it.

“Ah… are there any more out here?” he asked, seeing as she was still slightly upset about something and not wanting to inadvertently stumble into whatever was so sensitive.

“What? Oh, ah, let me check. I… ah… have to dismount. My horse is messing things up.”

He nodded, accepting her explanation a face value, and took the reins. It wasn’t often she liked to ride a horse, considering them nothing better than dragon bait. But they were in a hurry to reach Whiterun, and riding was faster than walking. He watched her step away a short distance, and could barely hear her whispered Shout. He did see her eyes, glowing light blue in the night, as she turned on the spot, gazing all around them, neither friend nor foe nor animal hidden from her. She stopped finally, tilted her head, held her hand up in front of her face, and gave a little shake.

“Gerhild?”

“Ah, no, Vorstag, no one’s left outside. But there are three more, underground. Must be a cave or mine somewhere nearby.”

“Should we find it and clear it out?” he suggested warily. “I don’t like the idea of you fighting without armor…”

“But neither do you like the idea of leaving bandits behind to prey on innocent travelers,” she finished. “There are only three, I think. Shouldn’t be any trouble.”

“Alright,” his thin lips pressed into a thin line between words, “Where?”

“There,” she pointed confidently, a strange contrast to her earlier confusion. They walked together around the outcropping, finding a wooden door leading to an abandoned mine. Tethering their horses outside, they crept silently into the darker interior. _“Laas Yah Nir,”_ she Shouted yet again, and again gave that funny tilt to her head.

“Gerhild, what is wrong with you?” he asked, managing to sound exasperated even through a whisper.

“I… I can’t fight,” she stammered. “You’ll have to…”

“I intended to,” he interrupted her. Damn but his blood was still racing, his limbs still energized and itching for a conflict. He’d have one with her if he wasn’t careful. “How many and where?”

She heard the command in his voice, but it didn’t have an effect on her, her voice still sounding preoccupied. “Two rooms. One in the first, on the right, looks to be sleeping. Two in the second room, one lying down, the other sitting.”

“I’ll be right back,” he gripped his sword a little tighter. “Stay right here.”

She nodded to his back, and watched him get swallowed within the darkness. “Shit…” she breathed, sliding down to the ground with her arms wrapped around her knees.

Vorstag crept through the tunnel, reaching the first chamber silently. The lone bandit was sleeping, lying on his side on a bedroll, a single candle burned down low. The Dwarven blade passed with a slick sound through the sleeping bandit’s neck. He made a soft gurgle as he died, but it wasn’t loud enough to alert the others, even within the enclosed space.

Vorstag rotated his sword through the air, resettling his grip, and pressed further into the mine.

The second room proved a little tougher, which suited him just fine. One of the bandits was easily taken out of the fight, groggily waking from sleep when Vorstag charged the room. He barely had time to find his mace before Vorstag’s blade lopped off his hand. He lay there, screaming and bleeding out across the floor, while Vorstag faced the leader.

The bandit chief was a little more of a challenge, as befitted a leader. They engaged a few times, their swords clanging together, the sound much louder thanks to being surrounded by hard-packed earth and stone. No jibes or threats were exchanged, both men sensing a worthy opponent in the other and focusing on their fight. Vorstag feinted while the bandit wisely held back, biding his time for a true opening. He deflected a blow to his head and sidestepped a following swipe at his midsection.

Vorstag was smiling, his brown eyes warm with the exercise and adrenaline. It was so tempting to allow the fight to continue for a time, to enjoy the other’s skill and perhaps give him a lesson or two. Both men, however, knew Vorstag was the better swordsman and would eventually win.

He finally sighed, figuring if he didn’t finish soon, Gerhild would come looking for him, promise or no promise. Two quick thrusts, a feint, a shove and another thrust, and the bandit leader slipped in the bloodied ground next to the other bandit. Vorstag pursued, jamming the hilt of his sword onto the leader’s head, cracking his skull. For added measure, he set the tip of his sword against his chest, and leaned on the hilt as he drove the blade through his heart.

The one-handed bandit was still alive, whimpering, weakened by blood loss. Vorstag wasn’t a cruel man, and gave him a quick death, thrusting his sword cleanly through his heart. He emotionlessly wiped his blade free of blood, and retraced his steps to the opening of the mine.

He saw Gerhild sitting there, her knees drawn up to her chest, her face buried in her arms. A feeling of dread gripped his heart, now that the heat of battle was out of his system, and he raced up to her, falling to the ground by her side. “Gerhild?” he called, pulling her into his arms for a quick embrace. Then he leaned back, his hands roving all over her, squeezing her limbs and checking her head. “What is it? What’s wrong? Were you hurt? You should’ve said something…”

“I’m… no… I’m not hurt,” she sniffed, vainly fighting back the tears. A tremble swept through her, and the next moment she was wrapping her arms around his neck, clinging to him, shuddering into his chest.

He heard her muffled curse whispered into his armor, some sort of emotion making her shake beneath its force. She’d been so stable these past two weeks or so, since being cured of vampirism and getting her own soul back—slightly changed after spending so much time with the dragon souls she carried—that this strong reaction was no longer characteristic of her. He didn’t know what to do, and decided to tell her as much. “Gerhild, please, my love, what’s wrong? You’re scaring me.” When she didn’t answer right away, he pressed on. “Answer me, my heart, were you hurt?”

“…no…”

“Good,” he closed his eyes briefly, but continued to hold her closely. “Are there more bandits?”

She shook her head with her denial this time, and he relaxed a little more.

“Alright. Is there any other danger nearby? Wolves? Dragons?”

She sniffed again, “No. Not that. I… ah, gods, how do I say this…?”

He laughed softly, not sure why other than the relief that there was no more danger near them. He leaned back and took hold of her chin, lifting her eyes to his, and advised, “Just say it. Whatever is wrong, just say it, and we’ll face it together.”

“That’s just it,” she pulled away a little, the back of her hand wiping at her nose. “Nothing’s wrong, and everything’s wrong. Vorstag, I… I’m… there’s…”

Relief was turning to frustration. He strove manfully to hide it, but if she didn’t spill it soon, he was gonna take her over his knee and spank her. Or kiss her senseless. Or… something!

“When I used the Shout,” she began, figuring to start at the beginning, “The one that detects life forces, even things like Dwarven Automatons…”

“Everything but dragons, aye, I know it,” he rushed her a little. Stamping down his impatience, he tried to smile and brush back a few strands of hair from her face. “You said the horse was messing things up for you.”

“That’s what I thought,” she nodded, but her eyes were saying something else, willing him to figure it out without her having to say anything more. When he only stared back blankly, she knew she had to continue. “After getting off my horse, and walking a few paces away, and Shouting again…” how long could she stall? “There was another life force.”

He blinked at her, trying to reason it through. “Another life force? Like another person? A victim of these bandits?”

She was shaking her head before he even finished. “Not… someone else… I mean, not outside of me…”

“Outside of you and me,” he corrected, still not understanding.

She shook her head, taking his hand and lacing their fingers together. “No, I mean, when I used that Shout, there was an extra halo, or a double image, no matter whom I looked at, or where I looked, because there is another life force,” she took their entwined hands, placing them against her belly, “Inside me.”

He stared at her, poleaxed.

“Say something?”

She watched his eyes blink. Fine, he was still alive, but…

“Please?”

When he finally moved, it was like a dam had broken. He laughed, almost cheered. Ah, fuck it, he did cheer. He crowed boastfully into the empty mine, his voice spilling out into the surrounding prairie. His other arm held her close, rocking her back and forth, wanting to spin her around and around joyously but they were still sitting on the ground. He kept his hand on her belly when he finally released her, his eyes shining with the pride of accomplishment. Gods, he was going to be insufferable about this.

“Vorstag, this isn’t good…”

“Of course it is!” he stopped her words, barely able to speak around the grin splitting his face. “You’re with child…”

“Aye,” she stopped his words, “A child. A babe. And… oh, Vorstag, this can’t be happening.” She managed to disengage herself, gaining her feet and taking a few steps to push open the door and reach the outside.

He followed, but hung back a little, wanting to know exactly why this was so wrong. “Gerhild? Please, don’t walk away from me. Tell me, what’s scaring you?” He put his hands on her shoulders, a little hesitant, not to pull her back to him, but to let her know he was there, with her.

She lifted her face up to the heavens, the moonlight soft on her pale skin. “I’m Dovahkiin. You know what that entails. I have to face Alduin, sometime in the future, the near future probably. How can I do that, with a belly heavy with child?

“And even if I delay facing Alduin so I can bring this child to term, there are still the other dragons. They seek me out, whether I’m within a city or the deserted countryside. And, again, how can I fight a dragon, knowing that it would only take one glancing blow to make me miscarry.” She turned back to him, her breath shuddering in her chest.

“It’s happened. Not to me, but my mother. She…” paused to wipe away a tear, the first she had cried over her mother in years, “Maeganna was with child, a few years before I was born. She and father got into a fight with some Imperials.” She didn’t need to recite the whole story, as her mother had been carrying Ulfric’s child, and Vorstag didn’t need to know that… not tonight anyway. “She ran a soldier through, but the force knocked the hilt into her stomach, and she lost the babe. I… Vorstag, I don’t want something like that to happen to me, to my baby. And it’s more likely to, considering who and what I am.”

“Shh,” he breathed into the cool night air, the sound falling between them. He thought her fears ungrounded, at the very least ridiculously far-fetched, but he knew fears rarely if ever gave in to reason. He had to reassure her, calm her, and encourage her to get her through this. “Listen, I don’t know what’s going to happen, and neither do you, but I do know this: we are together; we will be together.”

“But…” she briefly sucked on her lower lip, “But what am I going to do?”

He smiled, his white teeth bright in the moonlight. “WE,” he stressed, “Are going to have a baby.”

His face was so hopeful, so proud, so overflowing with love, she had to let go of the short bark of laughter strangling her breath.

“First, we’ll get on our horses and head to Whiterun,” he pulled her into his chest, stroking her back soothingly. “Then you and Eorlund can plan this dragon-inspired armor you’ve been dreaming of. After that, we’ll get married, find a place to live, somewhere quiet and private and with protection from dragons.” He kissed the intricate braids of her hair, inhaling the scent of her lavender soap. “You’ll need new armor before you face Alduin, and that’ll take time to make, time enough to carry our baby to term, tucked safely away in our new home. See? It all works out.”

She let him tilt her face upwards to kiss her, just as she let herself believe in his bravado and confidence. “It all works out,” she repeated, not quite feeling it as much as he did, but saying it nonetheless, the need to feel his reassurance being so strong.

“And,” he added, going back to holding her, “I’ll be with you the whole time. As your companion. Your love. Your husband. You’re not facing things alone any longer, Gerhild. I will always be here for you, with you.”

She clung to him, the fear subsided but still there. “I love you.”

He rocked her comfortingly, “I love you, too.”

“Marry me?”

He laughed softly, “As soon as we get to Whiterun.”

* * *

It was late in the evening, a few days after the run-in with the bandits, when Vorstag and Gerhild reached Whiterun. She was tired, but had insisted they pressed onward, feeling a little of that driving mania of old creeping back into her. She wanted to get to Whiterun, to get to safety. And other than Vorstag’s arms, the Companions’ home of Jorrvaskr was the only other place where she felt safe.

Vorstag hadn’t argued, other than being a little over-protective of her condition, which she frequently scoffed at. Still, it was with a great sigh of relief—from both of them—when they dismounted at Whiterun Stables.

A dark haired Nord was sitting just outside, smoking a pipe. He stood as they walked their horses up to the stables, anticipating customers. “You looking to stable your horses…” he began, his voice trailing away as he recognized her. “Lady Gerhild. It’s an honor.”

“Hello, Skulvar,” she inclined her head, showing a smile she didn’t feel. It had been a long, hard trip, but ever the consummate actress, she played her part well. “Aye, I suppose we will be stabling these animals. At least,” she cast a look at Vorstag, “You said you wanted to keep your mount.”

“Aye,” he agreed, stroking the gelding’s neck. “He’s a fine animal. Grown kinda attached to him.” He finished untying their packs from the horses’ saddles.

“Then we’re stabling these two horses,” she handed over the anticipated amount of coin, “At least for the month. If it’s longer, I’ll send my housecarl back with more coin.”

“Of course, Lady Gerhild. We’ll see to it these two horses are cared for and pampered with the finest grains and freshest water. Jervar!” he turned his head to call out to his son, before turning back to them. “Have you been riding far? Get these mounts rubbed down quickly. They’ve got the look of trained warhorses about them. And make sure they get a good amount of feed.”

Vorstag was entertained how the ostler split his conversation between them and the boy, Jervar, presumably his son. “Aye, from up near Morthal,” she answered. “They’re good horses, and have served us well, so we appreciate your taking such good care of them.”

“Of course, Thane North-Wind, of course. And Lord, er…” his voice trailed away as he finally took a good look at her companion in the flickering torchlight. Vorstag had been to Whiterun before, and the tattoo on his cheek was quite remarkable, but everyone had heard of his death, and Gerhild’s subsequent ‘illness’—though most thought she had suffered a broken heart, not a broken head.

“Oh, no,” Vorstag made a dismissing motion with his hand, his lips stretched into a wide and charming smile, “No title yet. Still just plain old Vorstag of Markarth. Come on, Gerhild, it’s late. We should get home.”

“Aye,” she nodded. “Excuse us, Skulvar, but we’ve had a long journey. Good night, and thank you for taking such good care of our horses.”

They walked off, hand-in-hand, both of their packs over his shoulders, and a stunned Skulvar staring after them. “Well, shit…”

It was a bit off-putting, Vorstag supposed, the way everyone recognized Gerhild, even the greenest soldier knuckling his forehead as they passed. And when their eyes fell to him, everyone grew silent, like he was some long lost cousin that they hadn’t seen in fifty years. Ever the easy-going type, he tried not to let it get to him. Though they hadn't made a secret about his return to life—since she found him in Blackreach after the Thalmor were vanquished—they hadn't exactly made proclamations about it, either. He kept reminding himself that they had reached their goal, they were in Whiterun, and soon they would be married, so of course everyone needed to find out he was still alive.

But the stares were unsettling. If only one person would come up to him and offer a greeting…

Breezehome, Gerhild’s house in Whiterun, was thankfully near the front gate. They reached it with only a few more shocked stares and reverently whispered curses, most everyone having already finished their business for the day and therefore leaving the streets fairly empty. Gerhild didn’t knock, but brought out a spare key from one of her many pouches—for years Vorstag has fought an impulse to try to ferret out and count every single one of her hidden pockets; it would make for an interesting evening he was sure.

The door finally opened and they stepped in, both of them sighing with relief. Then both of them gave a funny sort of laugh, seeing as how they reacted the same way. “I suppose I should have warned them that you are alive,” she offered, her hands at her waist trying to undo her belt. “Lydia!”

The sound of heavy boots could be heard upstairs, directly over their heads, which Vorstag was sure was Gerhild’s room, not the room for the housecarl. He looked to her, but she just gave a minuscule shake of her head, signaling to him that they’d talk about it later.

Lydia came stomping down the stairs, her eyes wide and her lips parted as she panted. “Honor to you, my Thane,” she stumbled out with her steps. Her eyes swept over to Vorstag and she nearly tripped. He, unfortunately, was in a position to catch her and keep her from slapping face first into a dresser. Being a gentleman he reached out to steady her, even though his hands were full of his belt and sword.

“Easy there,” he smiled, “Or we’ll have to get a railing installed.”

“V-v-v…” she stared at him, her eyes even wider than before, if that was possible, “Vorstag…?” There was an extra redness to her cheeks that wasn’t from the rouge she liked to use.

“Good to see you, too,” he beamed at her, letting go to finishing hanging up his sword and belt.

With his back to her, she couldn’t see how hard he was struggling not to laugh. Gerhild could, and it was making her lips twitch. “Um, Lydia,” she began, trying not to look at him as he stowed his helmet and gauntlets, “I know you’ve got a lot of questions, but they can wait until morning. Vorstag and I have been traveling hard for almost three weeks to get here. We’re tired, hungry, and grouchy.”

“But not in that order,” he added, turning around now that he had himself back under control. “Is there any food in this house?”

“I, ah, wasn’t expecting you,” Lydia mumbled, “So I don’t have anything prepared.”

“Oh, that’s alright; I can cook something,” he offered.

“No, just grab some cheeses and bread. I don’t want to wait to eat.”

He flashed a smile at her, warm and suggestive, and she felt herself blushing.

“Ah, my Thane…?”

Vorstag was perusing the cupboards, chucking random foot items into a basket. “You got any milk?”

“Ah, no. Um, my Thane…?”

Gerhild was also tossing items into the basket. “Water will do. There should be bottles of mead on that shelf over there.”

“Great!”

“Ah, Lady Gerhild…?”

“Oh, you don’t mind if we take these two sweet rolls?” she asked, trying to sound innocent. “Sorry if you were saving them for breakfast, but I’m so hungry tonight, I could eat for two!”

Vorstag gave a chuckle at that last statement, causing Gerhild to blush when she realized what she had said. She turned away before Lydia could see her burning cheeks and added the rolls to the rest.

“Gerhild!”

Both of them looked up at the housecarl, her eyes still wide and her eyebrows lifting off of her forehead.

Gerhild allowed a brief flicker of irritation to cross her features, but finally gave in. “Oh, fine. Here’s the short version. Vorstag’s death was faked by someone who wanted information on me. He escaped, we met up, took care of the vampires, and now we’re here in Whiterun to get married. Have I left anything out?”

“Plenty,” he nodded, his arms full of packs and basket and extra bottles tucked under one arm, a loaf of bread tucked under the other. “But the rest can wait until morning.”

They started up the stairs, Gerhild holding the skin of water and another chunk of cheese. “Good night, Lydia.”

She ignored their obvious dismissal, even to the point of following them halfway up the stairs. “But… my Thane…married… I thought you said he was gay!”

“Lydia!”

“Shit, you told her that?”

Gerhild didn’t have to look behind her to know he had that kicked puppy expression on his face. She stopped climbing, staring at the next step as she ground out between her teeth, “Vorstag, later. Lydia, leave it until the morning.”

“But…” she unwisely persisted, and even Vorstag threw a warning look at her. “But, if, I mean, you’re getting married, shouldn’t you, ya know, wait? I mean, it isn’t done, it isn’t seemly, people will talk.”

You will talk, Gerhild thought to herself, but didn’t repeat it out loud. Yet she couldn’t resist the parting shot of, “The damage has been done, Lydia. Good night.”

“Good night,” Vorstag added, feeling a bottle slipping out of his grasp and really wanting to get upstairs before he lost it. He pressed up behind Gerhild a little closer, hurrying her along.

Lydia was finally silenced. She stood still for several moments, her feet on the steps, her face lifted up after them. She heard them walking around the landing out of sight, the door open and close, Gerhild’s giggle and the bed creak. It creaked again. And again. And…

Lydia, her cheeks still flaming, turned around on the spot and headed for the front door. She didn't bother with a cloak, she didn’t bother with a coin purse—everyone in Whiterun knew she’d be good for the money. She went through the motions of locking the door behind her. Her mind was numb as she headed up the street towards the Bannered Mare.

Farkas saw her walk in, her eyes a little wild and her face a mask of shock. Concerned, he approached her at the bar, but not before she downed her first shot of Colovian Brandy.

“Good evening, Lydia. How are you tonight?”

“Oh, ah…” she blinked at him, “Farkas!”

He was used to it, after a lifetime of having an identical twin. When they weren’t side-by-side, it could take people a moment or two to figure out which one was which twin. He didn’t mind, he never minded, and leaned against the counter. “What brings you here tonight?”

She downed a second shot. “Could ask the same thing of you. Jorrvaskr run out of mead?”

Farkas laughed, thinking she was telling a joke. Lydia liked to joke with him. “No, I was just clearing out a skeever problem Mistress Hulda had in her basement. She said I could stay and have something to eat, on the house.”

Lydia nodded, setting down her third shot and trying to order a fourth.

“You alright?”

She turned to him, hearing the concern in his voice, but really wishing the buzzing would start. “Nope, but I’m hoping to be soon.” Down went the fourth, but Hulda was refusing to acknowledge her pounding the empty glass on the counter.

“Ya know,” he leaned in even closer, the sweet smell of mead thick on his breath, but due to his massive size, not a hint of the alcoholic effects were showing. “That stuff doesn’t help. Not really. Just leaves you with a big headache in the morning. Come on. Talking is what helps.”

He took her elbow, nodded to Hulda, and steered Lydia out into the fresh night air. They walked for a few blocks, Lydia really wishing that damn buzzing would start, hoping it would drown out the little voice chanting in the back of her head. Gerhild and Vorstag… Gerhild and Vorstag…

“Hey, you forgot a light on in the house.”

“What?” she snapped her head up a little too fast. There it was, the fuzziness around the edges, the tilting ground beneath her feet, the numbing hum in her ears. She was just about to give up hope.

“There’s a light on in Breezehome,” he said a little slower. And people thought he was thick. “Where’s your key? We should go inside and turn it off.”

“Gerhild wouldn’t like that,” Lydia felt her cheeks redden, “Nor would he.”

He put an arm around her shoulders, mostly to keep her from reeling away down the street. “Gerhild’s back? My brother will want to hear that. Wait, who’s he?” Farkas asked, still studying the light in the upstairs window. Shadows shifted in front of it, but he couldn’t see what was going on.

She didn’t want to say it, because it would be repeating that annoying little chant inside her skull, but he had asked… “Gerhild and Vorstag.”

He looked at her, his lips drawing down into a frown. He had heard the mocking little tune behind her words, and thought she was teasing him again. But he remembered that Vorstag was dead, and Gerhild had loved him, and she was so sad that she made Vilkas mad enough to try to kill her. “That one’s not very funny, Lydia.”

“I’mna jokin’,” she slurred, beginning to feel warm. Come on, brandy!

Farkas continued to frown, but seeing that there was someone in Breezehome, and Lydia was somewhat upset or uneasy about it, he decided to bring her to Vilkas. He could figure out what she was trying to say. “Come on, let’s go talk with my brother. You can tell him Gerhild is back. Do you know how long she’s gonna stay this time?”

Lydia could barely feel the strong arm wrapped around her just beneath her armpits. Her legs, too, refused to send her nerve impulses, or accept them, wobbling like boiled cream in a pastry. “’til the weddin’.”

“Whose wedding?”

She blinked at him. “Hersh, a-course.”

Yup, she was drunk. He should’ve headed her off right away, but he didn’t realize she was such a light-weight. He gave up trying to make her make sense—Vilkas had the smarts for that—and simply carried her up to Jorrvaskr.

* * *

Aventus sat cross-legged on his bed, his head leaning back against the wall, eyes closed, listening to the mumbling going on in the next room. He did a lot of that, listening that is, as the Night Mother had decided he was the one she would speak to. Their leader, Astrid, had been defensive when he first told her, though she seemed to allow for the possibility. Cicero, the Keeper, switched between jealousy and joy, probably because he still wanted himself to have been the Listener. But most everyone else didn’t seem to care, so long as there were contracts to fulfill and money coming in.

He rubbed his eyes, stifling a yawn, fighting off the tired feeling. Business had slowed down during the war, but now that Skyrim was unified and free, a fresh string of contracts had popped up. Most of them were from commoners who wanted revenge against some nameless, faceless soldier who had raped, murdered, plundered, etc. It kept him busy, having to leave on a moment’s notice whenever the Night Mother told him to follow-up yet another poor soul invoking the Black Sacrament. The money wasn’t great, but it was work.

And it was work he was very, very good at.

He had been sitting there, trying to stay awake, even though he had been up for more than thirty hours straight. Over the past couple of years being the Listener, he had gotten a sense for when the Night Mother was preparing to speak to him. He had been asleep once, and having her invade his dreams to wake him and speak with him was not an experience he wanted to repeat. So, after his last mission, when he had returned home and gotten that sense that she was close to speaking, he had merely settled his tired body onto his bed and waited.

And listened to Cicero’s insane mumbling.

That the Keeper was insane Aventus had no doubt. That didn’t necessarily make him dangerous—he was an assassin, that was grounds enough to make him dangerous. But he knew, he just knew, Cicero was going to cause trouble, if he hadn’t already. But that wasn’t his problem, that was Astrid’s problem. His problem was keeping himself awake until the Night Mother spoke to him.

 _“Yes, I know,”_ she sighed into his head. _“I haven’t been considerate of your needs, my child.”_

A smirk crossed his lips, a little huff of indignation, but other than that there was no reaction. He had learned to school his features when she spoke, if only because talking out loud to someone who was speaking only in your head made most people look at you funny.

_“I have had problems, too.”_

He wondered to himself, what type of problems the dead could have.

 _“If only I could show you,”_ she answered. _“But not now. We have had much discussion, my husband and I. Someone has invoked the Black Sacrament.”_

He tapped his head against the wall, and wondered where he was supposed to go to next.

_“That is the problem. We are not sure you should go. But, technically he has called on the Dark Brotherhood. You will need to go and hear what he has to say. Speak not to him. Make no promises. Take no advance in payment. Only hear what he has to say, and leave. Can you do that, my son?”_

A little knot of affection burned in his heart like a candle flame whenever she called him her son. It felt so good to have a family, to belong, to have found something he was good at. “Yes, Night Mother,” he breathed, forgetting himself and speaking out loud.

“What was that?” Gabriella asked, just coming into the room.

Aventus rubbed his eyes again, opening them up to see her standing over him. “Oh, hello,” he said to the Dunmer, “Just, ya know, talking with Mother.”

Gabriella eyed him, but didn’t question his strange statement. She had been the most accepting of the Night Mother coming to them, and of Aventus being the Listener. She sat down on her own bed, tilting her head to ask, “Who is it this time?”

He yawned and stretched, his long limbs making his skin-tight leather armor creak. He started to work a few of the buckles loose as he answered, “Some Altmer up by Windhelm. But I can start after I get some sleep.”

She hummed a little something, not quite a word, but enough to let him know she understood. She, too, began to undo some of her buckles, getting ready for bed, though far too often her eyes strayed over to his body. He was still a little young for her tastes, but he was growing up so quickly. Must be something to do with his race; Nords always grew so strong and thick. She eyed the light sprinkling of dark hair already spreading across his chest and sighed to herself. Another year, perhaps, and then she would see what he was like. There were so few to choose from.

“Did you say something?” he yawned, looking across the room at her.

“What? Oh, nothing, just sleep tight, my brother.”

“Huh, oh, good night,” he answered, slipping under the furs. In his mind, he was thinking it would be weird, returning to Windhelm again. He hadn’t been there since the night Lady Gerhild Shouted him out a window. A smile made a lazy effort to tug at one corner of his mouth, but had to give up when sleep overtook him.


	2. To Secret Plots

He was fairly sure it was still morning. It was definitely daytime, and late enough in the day for businesses to have opened—he could hear Adrianne working at her forge next door, the greetings of people passing on the street, and someone’s gods-damned rooster crowing. His body, however, told him he could sleep in a little longer, the muscles of his limbs feeling loose like a long taffy treat. He and Gerhild had split the first half of last night between eating and sex. Aye, they had been a bit too enthusiastic, perhaps, but for the first time in weeks they had a bed and some privacy. And he had taken full advantage of both. He let out a long, contented breath through his nose and reached across the bed.

Vorstag’s hand found a fistful of pelts, still warm with the heat from the body that had occupied them. Damn it, if Gerhild was up, then he’d never get back to sleep, much less spend a little more time… snuggling. He cracked an eye open, a little fearful that he might find himself alone.

She was there, her back to him, sitting on the edge of the bed and running a comb through the snarls created by sleep and their activities. He lazily watched her toned arms reaching around her head as she shifted her mane of long, dark gold tresses over one shoulder. Her back became exposed, revealing the scars that marred the flesh there, from just beneath her shoulder blades to—he knew—the tops of her thighs. It saddened him a little, thinking of the vow she had made: that she’d never get rid of those scars, so long as the Thalmor threatened Skyrim. She’d driven them out, aye, but they weren’t gone for good. And for one morbid moment, he couldn't see a time they wouldn’t be a threat, unless she managed to submit Alduin to her will and rode him to wage war against the Aldmeri Dominion…

She tossed the tresses over her other shoulder, and must’ve glanced behind her to see he was awake. She paused, and the lack of movement brought him out of his brown study to see her face. Her violet eyes were shining this morning, even lightening to a deep blue, coyly surveying him over the top of her shoulder. A tiny furrow appeared between her eyebrows, no doubt in response to the brooding expression on his face. Damn it, but he never wanted to give her any cause for concern; there was enough weight on her shoulders already. Softening his features, he smiled a little cockily up at her and murmured, “Good morning.”

The furrow disappeared, either with relief that nothing was wrong, or with willingness to ignore whatever was troubling him. She smiled back, “Good morning,” and returned to combing her hair, though she kept her gaze on him, sweeping his form as he stretched and scratched at some itch, drawing her eyes to a rather prominent fold in the pelts over his hips. Yet the comb continued its repetitive journey through her hair.

It was apparent to him that he couldn’t distract her from getting ready for the day by mere suggestion. Deciding to be more forthcoming, he kicked off the pelts and scooted to the edge of the bed. He settled himself behind her, one leg to either side, his arms wrapped around her waist. “What’re you doing?” he sighed into the skin of her neck.

“Combing my hair,” she answered, trying to be obtuse, but the smile on her lips gave her away.

His lips were warm and wet, making her almost blush with how readily her body responded, her nipples tingling without even being touched. “Why?”

His hands moved up from her waist to encourage those traitorous nipples to harden further. Her hands faltered as he boldly caressed her with the assurance of possession. And he did own her, body and heart and soul. Just as she owned him. “Um… it had snarls in it… and I… I don’t like snarls… in my hair…”

“Neither do I,” he agreed, taking the comb out of her unresisting grip to set it aside. His other hand burrowed through the weighty mass, reaching her scalp. Slowly he pulled his hand away, the strands falling through his fingers like silk, to settle light and tickling on her skin. She shifted away a little from the touch, but his arm appeared on the other side and kept her from finding any escape.

“I… ah… I was… um…” her voice trailed off into silence as his hands continued to cover her skin. Gods, but he had long fingers, and they traveled everywhere, touching every sensitive spot he'd discovered last night. And she was powerless against his attentions. She felt like she was battling a dragon, the way she had to fight to bring her brain back into gear. “We should… get up…”

“No need,” his breath was hot on her neck, branding her with his voice. “I’m already up.”

She laughed softly in confirmation, feeling his shaft pressing against her back. “I meant, for the day.”

His fingers delving into the hair between her legs, the tips massaging gently, sent a jolt ripping through her like a lightning spell. He continued to caress and stroke, his touch ranging from featherlight to kneading. She closed her eyes, giving a small shiver as the sensations intensified, her hands on his wrists not so much to guide as to simply follow. She leaned her head back, resting it on his shoulder, exposing her neck submissively.

If she wanted, she could have resisted him. If she wanted, she could have broken his hold on her and slipped from his control. If she wanted. But right then, she didn’t want to break away; right then, she wanted him to continue those lightning-laced ministrations. Right then, she felt empty and needy inside, and knew he could make her feel whole.

Vorstag smiled to himself. It was funny if he stopped to think about it, how hard it had been to get her to see that she loved him, that he loved her. All the confusion. All the misunderstandings. All the lost opportunities. Yet now she responded so readily to his touch, to his merest suggestion, to any hint or whispered whim. He kissed her neck, she tilted her head to expose more skin. His fingers stroked lower, she spread her legs wider.

A knock sounded on the door downstairs. Vorstag answered with a growl of frustration, settling his forehead on the top of her shoulder.

She sighed resignedly, feeling the frustrated passion as readily as he. “I suppose it couldn’t last.”

He made an small noise of agreement, “You mean, until someone found out you were in Whiterun. Let Lydia answer the door.” Single-mindedly he returned to his possession of her body.

“I think she left,” Gerhild protested, but weakly, closing her eyes as he nuzzled her neck again.

“Hmm, I remember hearing her leave last night. But she’d’ve come back, wouldn’t she?” His hands spread across her stomach, making the barest of movements, the most minimal strokes. Gods, he couldn’t wait to see his seed start to swell her belly.

When the person knocked again, and there was no sound of Lydia hurrying to answer it, Vorstag gave up.

“I’ll get it,” he pressed one last kiss to her skin, before letting go and reaching for his leggings.

“I’ll be right behind you,” she agreed, reaching out to snatch her shift from the back of the chair. Her dress lay in a rumpled pile near the table—it had missed the chair last night—but she ignored it in favor of a clean gown. She looked up as the fourth knock sounded, Vorstag calling out some sort of answer or plea for patience. He was stamping his feet into his boots as he walked out of the bedchamber, his head through the neck of his tunic, his arms flailing at the sleeves. She sighed, took out a gown of dark red velvet, and started hunting for a pair of soft boots.

Vorstag reached the door and opened it, his face curious to see who might be there, despite the inconvenience of the interruption to his morning plans. It took him only a moment to recognize the dark haired man standing there, staring at him with wide, silver-hued eyes. “Vilkas!”

“…Vorstag…?” When Vorstag smiled and grabbed his forearm in the Nordic fashion, pulling him inside, Vilkas managed to start breathing again. “By Talos, is it… is it…?”

“Good to see you, too, old friend,” Vorstag closed the door with one hand, his other held captive by the Harbinger.

“I thought…” he tried again, guilt reaching up from his chest to strangle the words in his throat, forcing him to remain incoherent. “I found… your body… armor… ring…” He coughed, finally dislodging the chokehold, but his words weren’t any more eloquent. “I mean, how the fuck…?”

Aye, Vorstag knew this was going to be awkward. It had been already with Ralof, but it would be harder with him. Vilkas had been the one who found the mutilated corpse and identified it as Vorstag. “It’s… a long story,” he began, lamely.

“One we’ll tell you later,” Gerhild broke in, sparing Vorstag from having to explain everything, just yet. Vilkas turned to her, and seeing her warm smile and the spark of love in her eyes as she glanced towards Vorstag, was enough to remove any lingering doubt from his mind.

“By the Nine,” he breathed. Then he laughed, loud and full. He finally released Vorstag to stride up to Gerhild, wrap her in his arms, and spin her around. He started babbling as soon as he set her back on her feet. “I thought Lydia had, well, either gotten too drunk, or perhaps gone a little batty living all alone in this house, but she was right. You are back. You,” he turned to Vorstag, wrapping him up, though he didn’t attempt to pick him up and spin him around like he had Gerhild. Instead they slapped each other on the backs, “You are back. Gods, I… I can’t… I’m sorry, Vorstag. Gods forgive me, but I am so sorry. I thought you were dead. I told Gerhild… everyone… you were dead…”

“You were supposed to,” he admitted, finally freeing himself and moving to stand next to Gerhild.

“Why?”

The one word hung there, so simple a sound, a single syllable, but it weighed as much as the whole of Nirn.

“I… I don’t know what I can tell you…” Vorstag began, giving her a sideways glance.

“He knows I’m Dragonborn,” she supplied, sensing the reason for his hesitation. She set a comforting hand on his shoulder, knowing that sharing the experience would be difficult for him, and gave him a sad little smile. “Tell him what you wish.”

Vorstag nodded, letting out a heavy breath. “It’s too hard for me to keep track, who knows you as Lady Gerhild, or as the Dragonborn, and all that.” He looked back at Vilkas, “I’ll tell you more details later, but the official story is, the Thalmor heard that I might have met the Dragonborn. They captured me so they could torture me for information on her. They staged my death so no one, especially the Dragonborn, would suspect I was still alive and come looking for me.”

“…fuck…” Vilkas’ lips barely moved as he exhaled, his eyes wide as he leaned against a dresser for support.

“I was being held at Northwatch Keep, the same time Thorald Gray-Mane was there. Gerhild arrived with Avulstein to rescue Thorald, and found me. We knew, as long as there were Thalmor in Skyrim, that I wouldn’t be safe. So I went into hiding until after the Civil War was over," he continued the lie they had created to cover all the mistakes and misunderstandings that followed his rescue. "Then I joined the Dawnguard, got them ready to fight the vampires. Now that that mess is taken care of,” he reached out to catch her hand, and her sad little smile turned braver, “We're here in Whiterun. To get married.”

“Fuck!” Damn, he was supposed to be the smart twin, but for once in his life he felt as lost and bewildered as his brother in a discussion about how to temper steel. Then again, Farkas would say, as long as the blade was sharp and strong and he knew how to use it, he didn't need to know how to forge it. “If that’s the official story, I wonder what the rest of the story is like. Not that I’m asking you to tell me,” he held up a hand, thinking that Vorstag’s time as a guest of the Thalmor couldn’t have been pleasant, not with the haunted look hovering around his eyes. “Just… fuck. I… but the ring… I found it with… the corpse…”

Vorstag held up his left hand, showing the missing finger. “The Thalmor were very thorough with the details. When they couldn’t get the ring off, they took the whole finger.”

Vilkas stared at the hand, at the place where the finger had been, the finger that had held a small silver ring that Gerhild had given Vorstag, the ring that Vilkas had used to identify the otherwise mutilated and unrecognizable body.

He didn’t like admitting he’d been duped, especially by the condescending Thalmor, but he couldn’t deny it. Yet seeing Vorstag alive, the two of them still deeply in love, and knowing the Thalmor hadn’t broken Vorstag—not if Gerhild had remained safe from them…

No, whatever happened was in the past. As long as Gerhild and Vorstag were happy, it didn’t matter how he turned out to be alive. “Wait,” he held up a hand, his brows scrunching, as his brain finally plodded through the last bit of Vorstag’s story. “You came back to Whiterun… to…”

“…To get married,” Gerhild confirmed. There was a glow about her as she said that, as if those three little words somehow fulfilled her whole existence.

“No shit.” Aye, he was anything but articulate this morning. Immediately he put aside all questions, all doubts, all surprise, and took them both into a hug. “Congratulations!” he laughed.

Gerhild laughed, too, the sound full of life, and subtly different than her normal laughter. He knew she kept herself and her actions tightly in control, fearing the strength of her overwhelming emotions. And she had always been able to hide her deadness, to sound and look normal, despite her cold nature. This morning was different. This morning, the emotions were so rich, so robust, so honest, it made Vilkas want to tear up. “You, ah,” he paused to clear his throat, “You planning on having it here? In Whiterun?”

“Aye,” Vorstag answered for them.

“But why here? I know locals who have gotten married before the Gildergreen, those who can’t afford the trip to Riften to get married at the Temple of Mara. But… you’re a Thane. You can afford it. Besides, you’re…” Vilkas shook his head, “You’re the Dragonborn. Everybody’s gonna want to attend the Dragonborn’s wedding, or at least know about it, and send gifts and have feasts and…”

“Precisely why we’re getting married here,” Vorstag interrupted him. “A wedding like that would take time to plan—a year at least. And we don’t have a year.”

“We don’t want to wait a year,” she corrected, and Vorstag realized his near slip. He pretended interest in a bookshelf while she continued. “We want a nice, private little ceremony.”

Vilkas was still having trouble accepting facts. “You’ll at least want a few important people to attend, High King Ulfric and…”

“No!”

They both answered so quickly, so vehemently, that Vilkas had to raise a questioning eyebrow. There was more going on here than he knew, but if their reaction was anything to go by, he probably didn’t want to get involved.

Gerhild cleared her throat and took the lead again. “No, Vilkas, that’s exactly what we don’t want. The fewer people attending this event, the better. I know, several people already know I’m the Dragonborn, and more are finding out. But we don’t want a large, elaborate Wedding of the Dragonborn, with half of Skyrim trying to show up, and lots of needless conventions and extra feasting and toasting and entertainment and… ugh!” She made a face, waving all the fuss aside with a small shudder. “We want a quiet, simple wedding. Just the two of us, and a couple of witnesses.”

“We’ve, ah, written our friend, Ralof, asking him to stand for one of the witnesses. We’d like to have the ceremony as soon as he can get here.”

“Vilkas,” Gerhild stepped forward at this point, taking his hand and looking at him with an expression of sincerity, “Would you be our other witness? Would you stand with us, share this moment with us?”

He knew better. She would have preferred Kodlak to witness her wedding; she had loved him like a father, just as Vilkas had, which was probably why she was asking him. Not because he had succeeded Kodlak as the Harbinger, but because his love for Kodlak made him like a brother to her. He tried to swallow that damnable lump in his throat. “Surely there’s someone else you’d rather have, a family member or close friend…” As soon as he said those words, he knew he’d been wrong to give them utterance, seeing both of their faces turn sad. But Vorstag answered for them.

“No, neither of us have any living family. Ogmund was the closest thing I had left, but he’s gone. And Gerhild’s family was gone before she ever reached Skyrim. Our friends are our family now, and we consider you to be one of our closest friends.”

He finally choked down that lump. “It was wrong of me to protest, only I didn’t want to take the rightful place of someone else. I’d be honored to stand as your witness.”

“Thank you,” Gerhild’s eyes were glistening with tears, so out of character for her that Vilkas caught himself staring.

Vorstag cleared his throat, seeing the way Gerhild was tearing up again. “You, ah, you said something earlier about Lydia?” he motioned for Vilkas to take a seat at the table. “Do you know where she is?” He started poking around the fire pit, trying to rekindle the dead embers there.

“Oh, ah, aye,” Vilkas answered, doing his best to ignore her odd behavior. She was acting different, a lot more different than she would just having Vorstag back. There was something more going on, but he got the impression that this might not be the time to ask Vorstag about it. “She… well… Farkas saw her last night, at the Bannered Mare. She downed several shots of brandy before he got to her. He tried taking her outside for a walk after that, to clear her head, only when they passed Breezehome here, he saw a light on inside. He asked her about it, but he couldn’t quite understand what she said, other than you were back in Whiterun. He decided to bring her up to Jorrvaskr where I could try talking with her.” He paused to give a rueful sort of laugh as Gerhild took a seat opposite him. “She was making even less sense by that time. I had one of the whelps put her to bed, thinking I’d talk with her in the morning. Only she’s so, well,” he didn’t want to say it—it was so disgraceful for a housecarl—but he couldn't see a way to dodge the issue.

“She’s too hungover,” Vorstag supplied for him. He’d given up on the fire and was now poking around the cupboards. “Gerhild, my love, there’s nothing to eat in this place.”

“Lydia likes to do her shopping daily,” she sighed. “Never mind, Vorstag, we’ll go to the Bannered Mare for breakfast. Would you like to come with us, Vilkas?”

“I’ve… ah… already eaten,” he answered, deciding not to point out that it was nearly midday, and instead offered, “Why don’t you come back to Jorrvaskr with me? Everyone’s gonna want to know you’re back in town, and how Vorstag’s alive, and who better to spread the news than the Companions? Tell them the story today, and by the end of the week, the whole Hold will know… the bunch of gossiping old wives…” he ended in a disgruntled mutter that was only slightly affected.

Gerhild hummed a little, her eyes growing dreamy, “Tilma is still there, isn’t she?”

“Aye,” he answered, and even Vorstag took notice of the odd little catch to her voice.

“I remember, she makes the best sweet rolls…”

“That’s settled,” Vorstag announced. “We’ll go to Jorrvaskr, eat, tell stories, and collect Lydia.”

“And speak with Danica on the way,” she added, already standing up, “And I’m sure I could find time to see Eorlund.”

“Eorlund?” Vilkas asked, bewildered.

She smiled to herself, already heading for the stairs back to the bedchamber, thinking only of finding a dragon scale to show to Eorlund, “Aye, let me get something first.”

Vorstag shook his head at the almost permanent look of confusion on Vilkas’ face. “Idea for some new armor,” he said quietly to him. Then he turned to call after Gerhild, “We’ll wait for you outside.” Some sort of answering sound came back to them.

Once outside, Vilkas took Vorstag’s elbow, holding him close as he said softly, “Is she alright? She seems… different.”

Vorstag looked back at the house, knowing she couldn’t hear them, but he kept his voice low anyway. “It’s a long story, but…” he thought about what she had done, the lengths she had gone to in defeating the vampires—especially the time her soul spent with the dragon souls she’d consumed. It wasn’t anything he could explain, even if it was his place to do so. He turned back to hold Vilkas’ gaze, “Aye, she’s different. In a good way. The things that have happened over the past couple of years, it’s changed her. She’s more… tempered. She’s still as strong as ever, but now she’s finding there is strength in letting herself feel. It’s still new to her and kinda tricky to handle, though, ya know?”

Vilkas knew about the reasons she had for keeping herself so cold. He thought about the offer he had once made to Gerhild, to help her learn to cope with her overly-strong emotions. Though he regretted the lost opportunity, he was glad she had found a way to embrace her emotions. And had Vorstag back in her life.

“By the way, I wanted to say thank you.”

“For what?” he shot a confused look at Vorstag, wondering what he had done to warrant such gratitude.

“Gerhild told me what happened, what she tried to make you do, after you told her I was dead.”

Images came to Vilkas’ mind about that sparring session, how she had goaded him until he lost control of his anger, how his sword had felt sinking into her chest, how the blood from the head wound had smelled pooling on the ground.

“Thank you,” Vorstag put his hand out formally.

“For not killing her?” he asked incredulously, staring at the offered hand.

“For forgiving her,” Vorstag corrected. “I know it was wrong for Gerhild to use you to try to kill herself, and I can only imagine how hard it was for you to forgive her.” He kept his gaze steady as Vilkas met his eyes and took his forearm.

Aye, it had been hard, but it was in the past. Gerhild was alright, Vorstag was alive, and they loved each other deeply. “Do you know how damn lucky you are?”

Vorstag nodded, though not as joyfully as one might expect. Being Gerhild’s lover held more danger than being her friend or companion. It held more rewards as well. “Aye,” he answered soberly.

“Well, you two haven’t gotten too far,” her voice called to them. They started like a pair of little boys planning to steal someone’s sweet roll. She turned after locking the door and smiled at them, the expression warm and full of life. And when her eyes held Vorstag’s gaze, Vilkas saw the warmth and life fill those deep violet pools. Gods, she was positively glowing!

Being in love, having Vorstag restored to her, was probably the best thing to happen in Gerhild’s life. And after all she’d suffered, and still had to endure, he was glad to see her enjoying a little reward—alright, a large reward. He turned away from the two before he caught himself cooing over them and started down the street.

* * *

Ralof had been to Whiterun before. Growing up in Riverwood, his father often took him and his sister, Gerdur, to the Hold capital whenever he had business there. And as a Stormcloak, Ralof had been there not even a year ago, as the Dragonborn’s escort, when she famously took the Hold with hardly any bloodshed—other than the life of one dragon.

This morning, however, he was no country provincial nor conquering soldier; he was merely Ralof of Riverwood, coming to visit his friends. And he was coming alone.

It was understandable, then, the mixed feelings he had walking through the front gates into the city. The guards treated him with cold and incurious politeness, a simple warning to a complete stranger to obey the laws, stay out of trouble, and enjoy his stay. Inside the city bustled with the day’s business, a smith working at her forge, a pair of bowmen leaving the corner club to head outside for their hunting trip, a young girl orphaned during the war selling wildflowers…

He bought a small posy, two of each kind of flower, and overpaid her on purpose.

He walked up the steps of Breezehome, which he knew to be Gerhild’s house in Whiterun, and knocked on the door. While he waited for a response, he watched the street, a leftover habit from his years as a soldier and escort. Some nobleman came walking by, but paid him no mind, his nose too high in the air to allow him to see Ralof standing on the steps. And he wasn't worth Ralof’s time, either.

He knocked again, wondering if they weren't home, where they would be, thinking he might check at Jorrvaskr…

“If you’re looking for Lord Vorstag and Lady Gerhild, they’re in the Bannered Mare,” a voice called out to him from the street.

Ralof turned back and saw a man, mercenary by the look of him, walking towards him. “Thanks,” he acknowledged, trying to hide the smile, thinking of what Vorstag would make of being called a ‘Lord.’ “I’m a friend of theirs, only just arrived from Riverwood…”

“You must be Ralof,” the mercenary held out his hand, “Name’s Amren.”

“Aye, I’m Ralof,” his voice was only slightly bewildered, but he took the offered hand and shook it warmly. “Do we know each other?”

Amren laughed, his white teeth a stunning contrast to his dark skin, “No, but I feel like I know you, after all the stories I’ve heard about you. Lord Vorstag’s been entertaining us locals in the Bannered Mare with tales of his adventures. Singing, too.” He leaned in close, “And he’s a lot better than that pompous ass, Mikael, who calls himself a bard.”

Ralof smiled, thinking of Vorstag’s performances in the Candlehearth Hall back in Windhelm. “I bet he draws quite the crowd. Is he there now? Entertaining, I mean.”

Amren had started walking with him towards the inn. “No, not yet. He likes to wait until after he’s eaten. If you hurry, you might be able to join them for supper.”

“I will. Thanks again, Amren,” he called over his shoulder, jogging down the street. It wasn’t only the thought of a hot meal and a full mug that drove him to hurry, but of seeing his friends again. Or at least that’s what he told himself.

He pushed open the doors of the Bannered Mare, pausing to take in the sights and smells. Gods, what delicious smells! Swallowing a sudden mouthful of saliva, he swept his gaze side-to-side, searching for the familiar dark gold braids…

Damn it, he almost missed her. Gerhild had her hair loose tonight, the thick mane falling down her back in twisting rivulets. She sat with her side to the door, Vorstag on the bench next to her and Lydia brooding protectively from a nearby table. A pair of twins sat opposite, one of whom had looked up as soon as the door opened, and he was trying to get the others' attentions. Vorstag was the first to glance, and beamed a wide and welcoming smile at him. "Ralof!"

Gerhild spun her head around so quickly, he thought her neck should have snapped. She, too, smiled so warm and loving, a momentary pang of jealousy twisted at his heart. No, he wouldn’t give in to that feeling. Gerhild had never felt anything more towards him than friendship, and what she and Vorstag shared was too strong, too special for him to ruin out of spite. Not that he could have if he wanted. He walked up to their table just as she stood up to greet him with an embrace.

“Ralof, I’m so glad you came. I was worried the letter might have missed you, or gotten lost, or you might’ve decided you didn’t want to…”

He laughed, silencing her worries. He pulled back, looking her full in the face, seeing for himself that she was fully cured. “Wouldn’t miss it. Not for the whole of Nirn.”

He let her go to give Vorstag mutual back slaps. Damn, they had seen each other just a month or so ago, but it felt like half a lifetime. Yet seeing the change in Gerhild, he knew a lot had happened—especially if they wanted to get married quickly and quietly. A suspicion tickled the back of his mind, but he brushed it off. There hadn’t been enough time for THAT to have happened, or for her to have noticed it if it did.

“You had an uneventful trip, I trust?” Vorstag led him to a seat between him and the smaller of the two twins. Not that either one was small, but the larger was built like a giant.

“Aye. I stopped in Windhelm only long enough to resign my commission,” Ralof answered, accepting a mug from a passing serving girl. “So we got home to Riverwood fairly quickly. Your letter caught up with us there. And I, ah, I came straight here.”

“I was going to ask…” Gerhild started, but Vorstag overrode her.

“Ralof, I want you to meet Vilkas, Harbinger of the Companions, and his brother, Farkas.”

Ralof gripped their forearms in turn, adding his smile to theirs. It was getting harder to keep up the act, especially after Gerhild almost slipped and asked about Serana. He swallowed another mouthful of the mead and hoped she wouldn’t try asking again.

“Seen you before, haven’t I?” asked Farkas, looking at him closely. “With the Dragonborn. Standing behind her when she killed that dragon.”

Ralof raised a curious eyebrow. “Oh, ah, aye, I was her escort, while she was with the Stormcloaks.” He looked between Farkas and Gerhild, wondering if the twins knew, how much they knew…

“Don’t confuse the man. You know who the Dragonborn is, Ice-brain,” Vilkas muttered, slapping the back of his brother’s head.

“I do, sure,” he shrugged, hardly noticing the blow, “But I didn’t know if he knew. Besides, we’re not supposed to talk about it, are we? At least, not in public. And this is public. So I don’t know who she is.” His beefy hand slapped Vilkas upside the head, a love-tap, but still strong enough to knock his head forward and make him choke on his mead.

Gerhild laughed, the sound rich and lively and spontaneous. Ralof and Vorstag were laughing, too, but Ralof was distracted by the pure honesty of her laughter. He shot a look at Vorstag, who mouthed the word, ‘later,’ where only he could see.

“He’s got you there, Vilkas,” she teased, enjoying the look of consternation on his face.

“Aye, well,” Vilkas groused, feeling the bruise on his dignity as deeply as the bruise on the back of his head, “He should still treat his Harbinger with some respect.”

“My Harbinger, sure,” Farkas nodded agreeably, “When you’re doing Harbinger-y things. But right now you’re just my brother.”

“I yield, I yield,” he held his hands up in mock surrender. “Who knew you had such a logical intellect inside that skull of snow.”

“Ice,” he corrected, deadpan. “My skull is hard, like ice, and snow’s too soft…”

“Ah, supper,” Vorstag headed them off, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “Smell that venison stew. And the best part is…” he waited, looking at Gerhild. She refused to answer and merely sat there, rolling her eyes, so he finished, “…No mushrooms!”

“You don’t like mushrooms?” Ralof asked, around a savory mouthful. That was something he’d never noticed about him before.

Vorstag made a face, despite the rich aroma filling his nostrils. “Not after spending months in Blackreach dining on nothing but skeever and fungus. If I never see another white cap, it’ll be too soon!”

The conversation around the table was milder after that, everyone concentrating on enjoying the meal. Ralof handed over the posy to Gerhild, who thanked him with pinkish cheeks, asking the serving girl for a small cup of water to keep them fresh.

After they finished, and while the bard Mikael was tuning his lute, Vorstag gave a nod to Ralof and the two of them sauntered off to the bar, supposedly to order another round. Gerhild watched them a moment, taking a sip from her cup, when her eyes trailed away and caught Vilkas staring at her.

“What?” she asked, curious about the odd look on his face.

“I just noticed,” he nodded to her mug, “What it is you’re drinking. Who would believe it, the Dragonborn a milk-drinker?”

Farkas laughed, thinking it a joke. And it had been intended as a joke. Vilkas, however, wasn’t laughing, seeing the tint on Gerhild’s cheeks deepen into a full-blown blush. He looked at her, looked at the milk, looked at Vorstag, looked back at her…

All those little hints he’d picked up on since Gerhild had returned to Whiterun…

“Well,” he said, thinking to himself, no wonder they want to get married so quickly…

“Well,” he tried again, still no more verbose than before.

Vorstag and Ralof returned then, handing off two mugs to the twins. “Ah, Gerhild,” he saw her blush, but decided against asking about it, knowing she could handle herself if the need arose. At any rate, he had more pressing business, “Excuse us for a moment. Ralof and I have a few details to discuss.” He got an answering nod from her before the two of them headed towards a small table tucked away into a dark corner.

“What’s she blushing about?” Ralof asked, sipping at his mead.

Vorstag sighed, having gotten a good idea from the look on Vilkas’ face. “I think Vilkas just figured out why we want to get married so quickly.”

Ralof choked, spitting his mead onto the table. He cleared his throat as he used his sleeve to wipe up the mess. “You mean…” He couldn’t finish the question, but the look on Vorstag’s face was answer enough. “No, you couldn’t mean… but it’s only been a month… six weeks at the most… less since she was cured… how… no, don’t answer that,” he closed his eyes and held up a hand. Taking a deep breath, he organized his thoughts into some semblance of coherency. “Gerhild’s with child?”

“Aye.” Damn, he couldn’t keep the smugness from his face, no matter how hard he tried. “It, ah, well, wasn’t intentional, ya know, just that we had this opportunity for some, er, privacy. Right after she was cured. Then we decided we’d get married before, ya know, starting anything, and sent a letter to you asking you to stand as a witness, and letting Serana know that the cure worked. We started for Whiterun, but there were these bandits holding us up for coin, and she used that Shout of hers that detects life forces, only for it to show her that she was… ya know. So, um, aye, we’re anxious to have the wedding, before people find out. Gotta keep things proper, ya know.”

Ralof was grinning like a fool. “Congratulations.”

Vorstag groaned at the honeyed tone of his voice. “Alright, so you know why this is so rushed. Keep it to yourself.”

“Of course.” Ralof struggled to wipe the grin off his face. “So, ah, I noticed she’s different. Is it because of…?”

Vorstag sighed, looking across the room to catch a glimpse of her, smiling and laughing at something Farkas had said. “No, it was her time as a vampire that changed her. You lose your soul when you become undead,” he started to explain.

“Makes sense,” Ralof nodded, trying not to think of Serana.

“But Gerhild cheated. At the moment of her death, she exchanged her soul for one of those dragon souls she’s consumed. It died, and her soul spent all those months… a part of her, but not her, ya know?” Seeing his lost expression, Vorstag shook his head. “It doesn’t matter; I don't really understand it, either. I just know her soul was altered after spending so much time with the dragon souls. She got a… I don’t know… a change of perspective, perhaps? She still has strong emotions, but they don’t frighten her to the point where she wants to deny them. She can face them now, share them with me. And they make her even stronger.”

“Are you sure?” Ralof countered. “Could be, she’s stronger, because she has you to share things with her.”

Vorstag looked at her again, caught her eye and had to turn away before she saw the look on his face. “So,” he hunted around for a change of topic and said the first thing that came to mind, “Where’s Serana? She went to get herself cured?”

As soon as the words came out, he knew they were the wrong things to say. “Sort of,” Ralof hedged. “When we got your letter, she was… I don’t know how to explain it. She wasn’t happy, she wasn’t angry, she wasn’t surprised… She just sort of,” he paused to shrug, “And said she had to leave. Went to speak with her mother about the cure. She said, she didn’t know if she’d be back or not, or if she’d end up getting the cure, but she wanted you and Gerhild to know she was happy for you, even though she wouldn’t be here for the wedding.”

Vorstag heard the pain in his voice. Ralof had taken a liking to the vampire beauty, and though their romance wasn’t full or physical, and hadn’t lasted for very long, that didn’t mean the ending wasn’t painful. He slapped a hand on his shoulder and gave it a rough shake, and got a rueful smile in return.

“Alright, there’s something else I need your help with.”

“What?” Ralof asked, taking a sip and looking at him over the lip of his mug.

“I want to build a home, for me and Gerhild and the baby, but I want to do it without her involvement.”

“You want it to be a surprise?”

Vorstag nodded. “We’ve talked about it before, about what the perfect place would be, so I think I know what to look for. And I’ve got a chest full of gold—the money I left her in my will—which she’s given back to me since I’m not dead. So I can use that to pay for the land and the materials and labor. Only I don’t want people to know this place is where Gerhild lives. She's decided, now that the Thalmor are gone, there’s no point any longer in hiding her identity. People are gonna start finding out she’s Dragonborn. But there are still people out there who mean her harm. So the less people who know where this place is…”

“…The less danger the three of you will be in. Aye, I can see that. So, you want me to buy this place for you?”

Vorstag nodded, “And the building supplies, hire the laborers, that sort of thing. I’ll provide the gold, but you’ll be the face everyone sees.”

Ralof lifted his mug. “Sounds like a plan. Here’s to pulling one over on Gerhild, and keeping her safe.”

“To secret plots,” Vorstag grinned in answer, clanking their mugs together.

“So, what sort of place are you looking for?”

Vorstag had to finish swallowing before he could answer. “I was thinking somewhere near friends, people we can trust. Like Riverwood. You know of any place around there, maybe with a cave or something leading into the mountains to provide protection from dragons? It also has to have a view without buildings or people too close, with plenty of trees and some water…”

Ralof laughed, asking rhetorically, “That’s not too particular, is it?” His face grew serious for a moment, “Yet I think there just might be a spot…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya know, I hated it, while playing the game, when some random guard would come up to me and call ME a milk-drinker. I mean, I'm lactose intolerant. Besides that, I'd be thinking to myself, hey, I'm the fucking Dragonborn! I could kick your ass with a Shout! I've killed more enemies in a week than you will in your entire life! I've roamed the wilderness and fallen off mountainsides—and lived to tell about it—while you patrol a quiet little street in a nice and secure walled-in town.
> 
> Then here I am, writing the line into the story. *sigh* I think there's something wrong with me XP


	3. Home

13th of Sun’s Height: 4E 205

It was early, a short while before sunrise, though during the summer in that part of Nirn the sun moved along such a path that it never sank very far below the horizon. The light was faint, rosy and soft and warm, coming in through the windows of Jorrvaskr. Vorstag and Ralof stood shoulder to shoulder beside the fire pit in the floor of the main hall, their hands clasped behind their backs, their eyes staring at nothing. Both men were dressed in their finest clothes, skin still damp from a hasty scrub, Ralof in blue and Vorstag in forest green. Under his breath Vorstag could be heard singing some song, but it wasn’t loud enough to be recognized.

“What’s the song?”

Vorstag stopped humming to look up questioningly at Farkas, who had spoken into the silence.

“What is the song you’re humming?” Farkas repeated slower. He was sitting at the table off to the side, slicing off bite-sized pieces from an apple. He was also dressed a little smarter than normal, but not because he was in the wedding party, or had been invited. He and the other Companions had unofficially been put in charge of crowd control, and since Farkas liked Gerhild so much, he decided to shine his armor a little bit for the day’s festivities.

Vorstag had to swallow a few times before he could answer. “Oh, ah, _The Farmer’s Grief_.” He grew silent again after speaking, not even bothering to resume his humming.

Farkas scrunched up his face, remembering what the song was about. “Strange song to have in your head before a wedding.”

Vorstag gave an embarrassed sort of cough or laugh, knowing the words spoke of a soldier deflowering a farmer’s not-quite-willing daughter. “Aye, well, Gerhild’s father used to sing it to her, when she was little, with slightly different words, of course. She often hums it under her breath. Must’ve picked up the habit from her.”

The Companion nodded sagely, setting down the apple core. “Sounds reasonable, I guess. D’you suppose it’s time yet?”

Ralof coughed, having come out of his own musings partway through the conversation. “I… ah… I think so. Suppose it doesn’t matter, whether we wait inside here, or out by the Gildergreen, does it?” He looked to Vorstag, straightening an already sharply creased collar and brushing an imaginary dust mote off his shoulder. Taking a deep breath, he asked, “You ready?”

Vorstag have a short bark of laughter. “Don’t know why you’re acting more nervous than I am.”

He answered with his own laughter, the tension breaking. “You’re right, only it’s just that—where Gerhild is involved—things have a way of going… wrong.”

Vorstag agreed with more laughter, “That they do. But not today, I hope. Come on, let’s wait outside. See you later, Farkas.”

Farkas lifted a hand, not bothering to stand and follow them from the hall. He’d wait for a little bit longer, in case any of the whelps doubled back to try to shirk their assignments. Then he’d step out and walk around, making sure no one interrupted the informal ceremony.

Outside the air was crisp and fresh, a brief coolness before the summer day began in earnest. The prairie of Whiterun was warmer than the mountainous climate of the Reach Vorstag was used to, but it was still very much Skyrim—don’t turn your back on the weather or it may snow, even in summer. He lifted his face, only a little concerned, to check the sky, smiling when he saw there wasn’t a cloud in sight.

They should make it through the morning, at least.

Ralof had started down the steps ahead of him, but Vorstag took his time, plodding down the stairs one by one, his head wobbling as he looked up at the Gildergreen. The ancient tree had started blooming that spring, something he was sure Gerhild had a hand in, but she only smiled tightly and shook her head, not willing quite yet to tell that tale. Now in the middle of summer it was in full bloom, its limbs infused with pinkish-purple leaves, unfurled and waiting for the sunlight. Danica, the priestess from the Temple of Kynareth, was already standing beneath its heavy boughs. She was wearing her finest robes, subtly stating like everyone else that this quiet wedding held import and significance.

Ralof reached her side, offering her a greeting in a muted voice. She answered in kind, and the two began a casual conversation regarding the weather, as if they had simply met by lucky happenstance on the street that morning. By the time Vorstag meandered near enough to join them, they were discussing the possibility of rain in the afternoon, for the benefit of the crops. He heard their words, and was fairly sure he heard his own voice joining them, but his mind was in a haze.

He was about to marry Gerhild.

The woman in question was inside the Temple, standing still as a statue, her eyes focused on things only she could see. Vilkas was with her, pacing around like a caged wolf, his thoughts restless and his impatience growing. He had barely slept a wink, even knowing how early the day would start, but he’d be damned to Oblivion before he let his temper out of control, today of all days! So he paced to bleed off the extra tension and energy and keep himself from gnawing on the benches.

“Do you think last week’s storm will hinder the caravans?”

The question was so sudden, so out of context from his thoughts, that he nearly stumbled. He did manage to stop walking and turn towards Gerhild, who had asked the question.

“…what…?”

“The storm last week,” she elaborated, still staring at a vase in the corner, “The one that took out the lower section of Brittleshin Pass. Do you think it will impact the Khajiit caravans coming through Whiterun?”

“I… don’t see how it should,” he began carefully, watching her closely for any signs that something was wrong. “They don’t use the pass.”

“They don’t,” she agreed, turning to look at him at last. Her eyes were cool and clear, so he was fairly sure she wasn’t suffering from any sort of delusion or hallucination, but the oddness of the topic did give him cause for concern. “However, a lot of their customers coming up from Falkreath Hold use that pass. Those customers will have to detour either through Riverwood, or Rorikstead, or perhaps not even come at all. I was just wondering how the loss of trade might impact the caravans. Would they change their schedule to cover for the delay? Change their routes to accommodate their customers? Petition the Jarl to repair the pass? Or suffer the loss of business?”

Vilkas finally realized his jaw was lying on the floor. He snapped his teeth closed and pursed his lips for a moment before he could manage, “You're thinking about caravan trade routes when you'll be getting married in a few minutes?”

“Aye,” she answered, but the slight tremble in her voice belied her emotions. “That’s why I’m thinking about the caravans. If I thought about what’s outside that door—what will happen in a few moments—I might lose the contents of my stomach.”

He was taken aback; never for once would he have considered Gerhild to be nervous—about anything! He took the time to look at her closely, to see the woman she was beneath her layers of titles and responsibilities. And she was human, just as human as he or Vorstag or Ulfric or… Tilma even.

Gerhild had turned back to the vase, offering him her form in profile. She stood straight and tall, aided he was sure by soft boots with high heels. Her sleeveless gown was of the finest linen, a pastel green that barely tinted the fabric. It draped from her shoulders, the folds and furrows accentuating the length and slimness of her figure, as well as the curves. Her dark gold hair was done up in a different style than before, pulled away from her face, the long tresses wound to resemble rose buds at the back of her head. Real red roses were also in her hair, pinned in among the golden ones, bringing out the red and bronze highlights.

Simply put, she looked like a vase of red and yellow roses, beautifully pale and soft and delicate.

Vilkas stepped up to her, taking hold of her elbow and dragging her out of her study of the other vase. “Is it time?”

“Not yet,” he answered, and caught the contradictory mixture of impatience and relief flicker across her features. “I just wanted to tell you, Kodlak would have enjoyed sharing this day with you.”

She blinked at him in surprise, and not a little pain. Her dark red lips parted, but only a harsh croak came out. She blushed and covered her mouth, giving a little cough to clear her throat, and tried again. “I wish he could have been here, too.”

“You loved him like a father.”

“So did you,” she countered, “And he had a greater hand in raising you. I came to him full-grown.” A sly little smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Do you suppose that makes us siblings?”

Vilkas laughed, “Gods, what do you think Farkas would make of that—my coming up to him to tell him we’ve adopted a sister?”

She laughed too, “Probably nothing much. Very little ever upsets him. He’d just shrug and say something like, he was already calling me his shield-sister, so what took you so long?”

They laughed together this time, the tension lightening with the coming dawn. They were still smiling when a gentle knock sounded on the Temple door.

“It’s time,” he said simply. She no longer trusted her voice, only nodded and walked over to a table, picking up a small pouch and checking the contents for what was the hundredth time. She turned and handed the pouch to Vilkas, and indicated for him to lead the way.

Vilkas opened the Temple door and stepped outside first. She took a deep breath and followed, her view initially impaired by his shoulder. Then he shifted to the side and allowed her to pull up next to him. She got her first look at Vorstag, standing beneath the Gildergreen whose branches were spread over him like a protective awning. Even from this distance she could see the wideness of his eyes and the fidgeting of his hands, and the thought that he was just as nervous as her made her feel immensely better. Smiling privately at the strange about-face of her emotions, she settled her hand in the crook of Vilkas’ arm and allowed him to guide her to the others.

Someone—undoubtedly the orphan girl Lucia—had spread freshly picked wildflowers over the part of the street that led from the Temple to the gazebo around the Gildergreen. Gerhild barely disturbed a single delicate petal as she all but glided across the cobblestones. Vilkas, on the other hand, didn’t have to look to know he left two heavy-footed furrows through the pale colored carpet. He made a note to himself to ask Danica about it after the ceremony, to see if she had asked Lucia to do this, or if the girl had received any compensation. Such a thoughtful act deserved some sort of reward.

They came to a stop only a couple of feet away, Gerhild facing Vorstag—the two of them directly in front of Danica—and Vilkas across from Ralof. Vorstag reached out and took her hands, holding them firmly, and Gerhild smiled back in answer. The Priestess of Kynareth looked over all four of them before she began. “My friends, today we gather in joy and happiness. Beneath these outstretched branches of the Gildergreen, Vorstag and Gerhild will soon pledge their loves, their lives to each other. Who would stand as witness to this event?”

“I, Vilkas of Whiterun, Harbinger of the Companions, will stand as witness.” His voice was louder and stronger than he had intended, or perhaps the dawn was gentler. Either way, he winced at the sound, and was half tempted to ask if he could try his line again.

“I, Ralof of Riverwood, Stormcloak General—retired, will stand as witness.” Ralof didn’t want to be outdone by any titles, and had brushed his off just for the occasion. The corner of Vilkas’ mouth twitched, but the side of Gerhild’s boot touching his calf made him hold his peace. At least until after the ceremony.

“Vilkas and Ralof, your duty is clear. You are to stand here today and bear witness to this rite. If any should ever doubt or question the validity of Vorstag’s and Gerhild’s marriage, it will be your sober responsibility to defend these two, to swear and pledge your honor to theirs. Are you willing to do this?”

“Before the Nine I swear, I am willing,” the two men answered in unison.

“Then I charge you to take into account all you see and hear today, and remember your oaths, not only to the gods, but to Vorstag and Gerhild.”

Vilkas and Ralof each took two steps back, their oaths given.

Danica paused a moment, enjoying her role a little too much, but no one truly minded. “My friends,” she repeated, and the huskiness in her voice was thick, “Love is one of the strongest emotions. Love can give us strength when we are weak and courage when we are fearful. It is in love, your love for each other, that I ask you to bind your two lives into one. Your weakness is now quenched in the other’s strength; your fear vanquished in the other’s courage. From this day forth, you will no longer be alone. You will be one person, whole and completing each other, your loves and your lives joined until death.” She looked between Vilkas and Ralof. “May I please have the rings?”

Both men passed forward two identical pouches, setting them on top of Danica’s hand, which hovered over Vorstag’s and Gerhild’s joined hands. The Priestess emptied the contents into her palm, two gold rings, forged by Eorlund specially for the couple. Gerhild had spent hours last night studying the one she was to give to Vorstag, and knew it had an inscription on the inside that read, “Forever and Always, You are My Heart.” She had no idea how he had managed such a feat, the letters so minuscule and perfectly formed, the message so endearing and enduring. She stared at the ring Vorstag was to place on her finger, and thought she could see an identical message inside it. She’d ask him about it later; once it was on, she didn’t ever want to remove it, not even to check the inscription.

Danica turned towards the Gildergreen, presenting the rings still in the palm of her hand up to the tree. “As a Priestess of this Temple,” she intoned, “I beseech Kynareth, the Goddess of Nature, to bless these two mortals, Vorstag and Gerhild, as they journey forth from this moment in their new life together. Extend your blessings also to these rings, the symbols of their love, their commitment, their solemn pledge to ever and always be together. Let these rings serve to remind them of their love, to give them strength and courage in the coming years, and to keep them always in each other’s hearts.”

A breeze stirred the branches, Gerhild’s eyes flickering in surprise at the movement, and briefly she wondered if it was Kynareth or Kyne who stirred the air. Regardless, the rings had been blessed, as had she and Vorstag.

Danica turned back around, holding the rings over their clasped hands. She looked to Vorstag first, who let go of Gerhild’s hand and nervously wiped his sweating palm on his leggings. He cleared his throat as he picked up the gold band, and prayed he wouldn’t shake enough to drop it.

He looked up then at Gerhild, catching her eye, catching her watching him. The deep violet pools were calm and content, all her nervousness banished, and he drew calmness from her. He thought about what he wanted to say, how he wanted to pledge his love, his life to her. He had fussed and practiced for days over his vow, and as he feared it had fled from his mind the moment Danica had presented him the rings. Looking at Gerhild now, however, the words came back to him. He held the ring before her outstretched finger, pausing over the nail, as he vowed:

“I, Vorstag of Markarth, take you, Gerhild of Skyrim, to be my wife,” his voice floated clear and purposeful in the early morning air. “You are my life, the breath in my lungs, the blood in my veins. Forever and always, you are my heart.” He pushed the ring on the rest of the way, settling it snugly against the base, a perfect fit thanks to Eorlund’s skill and planning.

It was Gerhild’s turn, and her fingers only trembled slightly as she lifted his ring from Danica’s palm. Holding it just at the tip of his finger, she tried to remember what she had wanted to say. “I, Gerhild of Skyrim, take you, Vorstag of Markarth, to be my husband. You are my Eye in the Warrior constellation, my north-pole-star, my lodestone. I would make my life, my home, with you, from this day forth.”

She almost forgot to finish placing the ring on his finger, but his hand moved forward just enough to remind her. She smiled a little, saw his answering smirk, and barely kept herself from giggling.

At that moment, the sun burst through a valley in the mountains, shining golden light onto the small gathering. Danica raised her hands over their heads and proclaimed, “Beneath the branches of the Gildergreen, and in view of these witnesses, let it be known that Vorstag and Gerhild have joined their lives together.”

She barely heard Danica’s words, so focused on Vorstag’s face as he bent it downwards over her own. Their lips touched, a chaste kiss and far too brief. As they pulled away, barely stifled cheers could be heard from a small distance away. Vorstag looked down the hill and saw, beyond where Ria and Athis were standing at the marketplace, people had gathered to witness the wedding from afar. He gave them his most charming smile and a jaunty wave, acknowledging them and thanking them for respecting his and Gerhild’s request for privacy.

“May I be the first to congratulate the bride and groom?” a voice called out from the other direction. They turned back to see Vignar standing there, his smile wide beneath his drooping white mustache. Without waiting for permission he came forwards and clasped their hands in turn. “And extend an invitation for the two of you to break your fast this morning with Jarl Balgruuf up at Dragonsreach.”

“Oh, ah…” Vorstag tried to hedge, not sure about it. He didn’t mind, his stomach depressed and empty, but he knew Gerhild hadn’t wanted any extra attention.

“I’m not taking no for an answer,” Vignar added, sensing weakness.

Gerhild swallowed her protest. “Well, since you put it so graciously…”

"Glad that's settled," he proclaimed, taking her acceptance before she could give it. He gestured with his hand towards Dragonsreach, sitting majestic and bronze-like in the morning light. He held his other elbow out for her, but she deliberately took Vorstag's arm as they ascended the stairs. She noted that Ralof and Vilkas fell in behind them, apparently invited to the breakfast as well, but kept her comments to herself. She didn't trust that some scathing remark wouldn't come out, and ruin the civil mood she was trying to maintain. At least breakfast would be small, if only the wedding party was invited to dine.

Inside the palace, her steps nearly faltered. The main hall had been decorated as if the High King was paying a visit. Ribbons and flowers wound around the pillars, rich runners draped the lengths of the tables, and servants in bright livery were filling goblets with wine and mead. The kitchen positively belched with savory smells, and from a section towards the side a group of bards were warming up their voices and instruments. This was precisely what she hadn't wanted, and her tone gave vent to her irritation.

“You’ve gone through a lot of trouble, Vignar, preparing a feast and entertainment.”

“A fair trade, I think; you get your quiet ceremony, Whiterun gets the honor of hosting the celebration.” He pointed to the head of the table, where two high chairs had been set, places of honor for the bride and groom. Jarl Balgruuf stood to the side, doing his best to appear pleasant and joyous. He had been reduced to a figurehead after Whiterun had fallen to the Stormcloaks. The true power was held by his new Steward, Vignar.

“I’m assuming you also told Ulfric about this,” she said quietly, stopping just shy of the chairs.

“He has a right to know; he is High King, after all,” Vignar replied, not at all apologetic. “Oh, don’t look so worried. I know you didn’t want him involved, so I made sure the letter I wrote regarding your marriage wouldn’t get to him until… let’s see…” he paused to scratch at his chin, “Today or tomorrow? Maybe even next week? Bah!” he waved it away like a pesky fly. “Who cares? I’m starving, but the food won’t be served until the guests of honor are seated. So if you don’t mind…” he gestured once more towards the chairs.

Vorstag kept her hand in his as they took their seats. Guests were still filing in, some milling around to gossip, some eagerly taking seats at the table. Vorstag took the time to lean over and whisper in her ear, “I swear to you, I didn’t know he was planning this…”

“I never suspected you,” she hastily agreed. “Vilkas, aye, but not you.” As one they looked at the Harbinger, who was talking quietly with Farkas a few feet away, and studiously avoiding their gazes—even after Farkas nudged his shoulder and tried to get him to acknowledge them.

“Well, at least we got… by the Nine!” Vorstag's soft brown eyes grew wide as his jaw went lax.

“What is it?” she asked, feeling alarm at the abruptness of his expletive. She looked around, scanning for danger, tempted to use a Shout, wondering if Ulfric had managed to find out in time to attend the feast.

“I just realized…” his voice drifted off again, and she looked at him with concern written all over her face. “…we’re married.”

She stared at him for a moment, before his deadpan face cracked beneath the force of his shit-eating grin. She wanted to hit him, for scaring her, for acting so ridiculous, for… for… But she couldn’t hold back the laughter. Her shoulders shook with mirth as she realized, too, that for once something good had happened in their lives, without anything to disrupt or taint it.

“Aye, we’re married, my husband,” she laughed, leaning over to kiss him.

A cheer rose up at the display of affection, resounding throughout the palace.

* * *

 

20th of Last Seed

Gerhild’s thoughts lazily drifted over the past month as her horse trotted calmly down the steep mountain trail. It was early morning, the sun above the horizon but behind the mountains north of Falkreath. She and Vorstag were traveling at a leisurely pace, confident they could make Riverwood before dark. It had been a long month of traveling, following so quickly on the heels of their wedding that they had barely spent a night in Breezehome before they were off. Yet Vorstag had insisted they go to Markarth before traveling became too difficult for her.

And truthfully, she realized, she was glad they had done so.

“What are you thinking?”

His voice was gentle, drifting from where he rode beside her to float gently into her ears. She smiled for him, ignoring the queasy feeling in her stomach and reaching out to take his offered hand. “Lots of things. Mostly of Markarth and Ogmund.”

She watched her husband’s eyes grow sad as he thought of his late friend. “Still think we shouldn’t have gone to Markarth?” he asked, referencing their argument about it. She hadn’t been warm to the idea, but he had been adamant. And remembering how it was his home and he hadn’t seen it since before he ‘died,’ she gave in.

“No.” She squeezed his hand, her stomach doing a funny sort of flop. “I’m glad you insisted we go there. It was good to see that Argis and Rhiada are doing well. And visit with Kleppr and Frabbi, and Bothela, and all our other friends. Even…” her voice broke, and she had to take a moment to clear it before she could continue, “Even visiting their tombs.”

Vorstag nodded, remembering his insistence to go to the Hall of the Dead. He had left her to talk with Bothela while he went on ahead. She had only meant to purchase a supply of that particular potion the ancient apothecarist brewed so well, but Bothela had insisted on giving her the recipe, claiming she was getting too old and wouldn’t be around much longer to brew it for Gerhild. They had spent quite some time talking about techniques and tips for making potions, before digressing into old stories and shared remembrances.

After an hour and Vorstag hadn’t come back to pick her up, she went looking for him. She found him, standing unmoving before Ogmund’s coffin, lost in a lifetime of memories. He had started when her hand touched his shoulder, and seemed to come to himself, but he wasn’t ready to leave just yet. He had wrapped an arm around her and proceeded to tell her some of his favorite stories of Ogmund. Next they had passed the tomb where he supposedly lay, and he had been unable to suppress a shiver before they stepped away. He took her round to where his parents laid, and a little further on was the tomb of his childhood friend, Hamming. There he once more regaled her with happier stories.

Though ever with that poignant edge to his voice.

Her mood was getting too dark, as was his, and she cast about for something to lighten it. “The shovel, though…”

“It was a debt,” he straightened his shoulders, banishing his own sorrow from his eyes. “I ran off with that farmer’s shovel, a good shovel. I know he’d never recognize me, now that my face is back to normal, but I still felt the guilt. And after losing the damn thing somewhere between Blackreach and Fort Dawnguard…” he paused to shrug, “Seemed simpler to buy him a new one.”

“Oh, I’m not arguing the inconvenience,” she teased him, “Only the necessity.”

“I said,” he groused, perhaps a little over-acted, “I felt guilt over taking it. So I bought him a new one, posed as my cousin and apologized for the theft. Thankfully he was very reasonable about the whole situation. Would have hated it if he decided to press charges after all I went through to make it up to him.” The corner of his mouth twitched ruining his pout, and she knew he was playing along with her teasing him.

“Oh, Vorstag!” she laughed, giving in to that warm feeling he could so easily ignite within her. He quickly joined in, but his eyes continued to study her, making her feel nervous. At least, she thought that’s why her stomach was squirming. When the laughter faded, and his eyes refused to return to the road, she decided enough was enough. She turned a little further in the saddle, facing him squarely and the road sideways, and demanded, “Alright, what is it?”

He made his eyes wide, blinking a few times, shaking his head a little, his mouth open though empty of words.

“Don’t, Vorstag, you know you can’t fool me, so don’t even pretend innocence.” Her vision tried to spin, sitting perpendicular to the road as their horses continued to walk, creating an odd sort of dizziness. “Something is bothering you. You’ve been watching me closely these past few days, and it’s starting to make me feel jittery. So, tell me…” she paused, a crease forming between her eyes. She felt a burp forming in her chest, or heartburn, but pushed it aside. “Excuse me. Tell me, what is it… oh!” She pulled her hand out of his, facing forwards and gripping her horse’s mane, pulling the animal to a stop.

“Gerhild?”

She shook her head, tasting bile in the back of her throat. “No. I’m fine. Just a little tired from all the riding.” She looked back at him, saw the worry and care etched into his features, and opened her mouth. She meant to speak, to scold him some more, but had to snap her jaw shut before the words could form. And before something else could come out instead of the words.

She almost made it off her horse. Luckily, the force behind her heaving stomach propelled her breakfast far enough to miss both her and the animal. She uncaringly dropped the reins and staggered to the edge of the road, one hand gripping her stomach, the other outstretched and searching for some purchase to keep her steady.

“Gerhild!”

She heard him struggling to handle the horses behind her, but she couldn’t spare him any attention. She only got as far as shaking her head before she had to bend over double, falling to her knees in the ditch.

“Gerhild?”

She couldn’t speak, her body so involved with emptying her stomach she could barely breathe. She coughed, choked, coughed again, made a noise somewhere between a moan and a cry, and sicked up even more.

Strong hands were on her shoulders, holding her, not lifting her up but supporting her, allowing the bile and sick to drip from her mouth. One forearm wound around her front just above her bosom, and she gripped it fiercely. His other hand seemed to be everywhere, tucking back a stray lock of hair that had escaped her braids, rubbing soothing circles on her back, brushing twigs and leaves from her cloak. He didn’t try to ask her what was wrong again, knowing she wasn’t able to answer, he merely held her and waited for the end.

It seemed a long time before her stomach finally decided it was well and truly void of all sustenance, before even the bile ceased to come up. She continued to kneel there, bent over his forearm held in fingers turned into vises, her lungs struggling to make up for the breaths she had been denied. A few moments later he asked softly, “Do you think you’re done?”

She nodded weakly, though didn’t trust her mouth to open. He lifted her up, easily carrying most of her weight in his arms, and set her off to the side next to a tree. She leaned her back against the trunk, merely thankful the sight of the sick wasn’t before her eyes, and stared blankly at the forest.

Vorstag left her for only a few moments, coming back with a handkerchief he had damped from a canteen. He pressed the cool cloth at the back of her neck, pulling her into his embrace now that he was fairly sure she was done. She sighed and closed her eyes, simply enjoying his strength, his patience, his love.

“It was those mushrooms, wasn’t it?” he said, his tone only a little accusatory. “I told you not to add them to your breakfast.”

She laughed, weakly, but it was enough to make her abused abdominal muscles ache. She finished with a grimace, but shook her head, “No, I don’t think so…”

“Something made you sick,” he insisted, not willing to let go of his personal dislike of anything fungus-related.

“Someone,” Gerhild corrected. Hearing his confused silence, she lifted her face towards his and continued, “It’s the babe. Bothela and I talked about this—when I was there buying those potions I wanted. Somehow she knew I was already with child.” She pulled the rag off her neck and handed it back to him. “We talked about what I should expect over these next several months. She gave me some good advice. And she warned me about the morning sickness.”

“Morning sickness?” he repeated, bewildered. “You mean,” he put one hand over her stomach, “The babe’s doing this to you? How?”

She laughed again, a little stronger this time. “If I knew that, I’d put a stop to it.” She set a cool hand over his, approximately over where the babe lay. She hadn’t started to show yet, hadn’t even started to feel firm, but she knew that would eventually start, too, just as the sickness had started. “Feeling ill in the mornings is perfectly normal and natural, though a part of having a baby that I wish I didn’t have to go through. I’ll be fine in a few hours. Until then, I’ll try not to sit sideways in the saddle, or anything else to make me feel sick.”

“You sure?” he stalled, not taking the hint and moving back so she could stand up. “We could rest here a bit longer, if you’d like. Or head back to Falkreath. Maybe hire a carriage…”

“I don’t need a carriage. I’m perfectly capable of riding, I simply need to go a little slower in the mornings, and not sit sideways to the road.” She smiled at him, trying to reassure him, but his brows remained furrowed. “What is it?” she finally snapped, having had enough of his preoccupation. “You’ve been watching me closely for days now, looking worried and… and… making me feel nervous! Making me feel scared. What is wrong? Did you get some bad news while we were in Markarth? Is it something I should know? Something the Dragonborn needs to handle? Please, Vorstag, tell me…”

“No, it’s nothing!” he stopped her by placing his fingers over her lips. She didn’t believe him, however, and though she was no longer speaking with her mouth, her eyes communicated more than enough reproach and suspicion. “No, I mean, that’s not really, it is something, but, shit!”

His fingers fell away from her lips to run through his hair, giving himself time to put his thoughts in order. “It’s the 20th today.”

“Aye, so it is.”

He glanced away before adding, “Of Last Seed.”

She didn’t say anything, still trying to figure out what he was implying.

“I didn’t realize it, I mean, that we would be in this part of Skyrim at this time of year, so close to Helgen, I only thought of coming this way so we could have an excuse to stop in Riverwood and visit with Ralof…” his voice trailed away.

Realization hit her almost like a physical blow. Her mouth went lax as she stared, eyes wide, at the scenery around her. “Oh.” It had been four years ago, almost to the day… “Ralof and I came down this road. Not here, but a little further on.”

“Aye,” his voice grew deeper and gentler, “I’m sorry, Gerhild.”

She acted like she hadn’t heard him, pushing herself to her feet and staring into the forest. She saw neither forest nor trees, however, her sight turned inward as she waded through deep waves of thoughts.

“Three days ago…”

Vorstag had reached his feet with her, concerned about her state of mind on this particular anniversary. Though she had come a long way since then, and he had been there through most of it to see her growth and recovery, he continued to be hypersensitive about her old habits. The trance-like expression and mumbled words concerned him, reminding him of the driven, tunnel-visioned, bloodlust-filled Gerhild of old. He felt he had to get through to her, and quickly, if he was to hold that unwanted monster of vengeance at bay. “What was that?”

She blinked, his voice reaching her as nothing else ever could, and relief made his knees twitch when her eyes focused on him. “I forgot about it. I mean, I knew today was the 20th, and of Last Seed, but the 17th came and went, three days ago, and it never occurred to me to think about it. To remember it. To feel… anything about it.” She smiled at him, warm and alive, the emotions making her violet eyes brighten into a deep blue. “I’ve been so preoccupied, with the babe, and being your wife, and all the plans before us, I never once thought about the significance of the date.” Her face grew a little annoyed, her fingers cool against his stubbled cheek. “Is that what’s been bothering you these past few days? You were worried that I was remembering that?”

“It, well,” he had the decency to blush, and the random thought fluttered through her mind that it had been quite a while since the last time she had seen him blush. “Aye.” He might have said more, perhaps apologized again, but laughter bubbled out of her chest at that moment. He stared at her, amazed at the sound and on alert for any trouble, but she wasn’t hysterical or upset.

“I do so love you, Vorstag,” she kissed his cheek, not wanting to kiss his lips after she'd just vomited, at least not until she could clean her mouth. “You protect me from bandits, from bad memories, even from myself. But this time, I’m fine.”

“I see that, now,” he agreed, wrapping his arms around her and leaning his forehead against hers. “But I’m still going to care about you.”

“I wouldn’t have you any other way,” she sighed. “Let’s get going.”

“You up to it?” he asked, his brows curved with concern.

“Aye,” she sighed, though she held his hand as they walked back to their horses, and allowed him to lift her onto the saddle.

They reached Riverwood late that afternoon, the sun again behind the mountains though above the horizon. The town was bustling with activity, the blacksmith sweating at his forge, his shirt removed to help him deal with the heat. Over the ringing of his hammer she could hear the sawmill blades, seeming to run continuously. Citizens hastened up and down the street, local farmers with produce, children and apprentices on errands for their masters, a merchant heading into the Riverwood Trader. There were other noises of conversation and domestic activity, from a camp of laborers just within the town limits. For the pastoral backwoods town, it was a rather cacophonous evening.

“There is a lot of activity today,” she mused. Vorstag pretended not to hear her, and she repeated, “I’ve never seen Riverwood this busy. Are there people moving in? Did they reopen the mine?”

“Don’t know,” he shrugged, refusing to meet her eyes. “Let’s get a room at the Sleeping Giant Inn before we see Ralof and his family.”

“If we can find a room,” she muttered, staring disbelievingly at all the new faces. They dismounted at the stables behind the inn, trusting their mounts in the hands of the ostler.

“Lord Vorstag! Lady Gerhild!” a voice called from down the street. They turned to see Hod walking towards them, a large and welcoming smile splitting his face in two.

“Hod! Good to see you. How’ve you been?” Vorstag asked, taking his forearm in the Nordic fashion.

“Can’t complain, thanks to all the recent work,” he winked at Vorstag, who immediately coughed. “Oh, ah, you made good time, I see. Roads were clear? Weather held fair?”

“Aye, aye,” he agreed, enthusiastically taking up the chore of making small talk. “Ah, Gerdur and Frodnar doing well, I trust? How’s Ralof working out at the mill?”

“Wife’s fine. Son’s growing like a weed, now that he’s almost a man. And I can’t complain about Ralof. He’s known the work all his life, so of course he’s had no trouble settling in. Even bought Faendal’s house, after… ah… excuse me,” he cleared his throat.

“Faendal?” Gerhild repeated, becoming interested. “The Bosmer who worked for you? Did something happen to him?”

Hod looked like he had swallowed a mouthful of dung. "Oh, well, he was out hunting one day last winter. Must have come across a bear. We found them, next to each other, after he'd been missing for a week. Damn beast had no less than thirteen arrows in it, but Faendal was dead, too. Mauled pretty bad. But here we are, conversing in the middle of the street, gossiping like old fishwives"

"I've noticed that men gossip more than women," she quipped, "But you're right; we should wait until later to talk.”

“Excuse us, Hod,” Vorstag stepped in, an uncomfortable look on his face, “But Gerhild and I should see if there’s a room available for the night. Then we’ll be over for that supper Gerdur promised us.”

Hod laughed. “You better not disappoint her. She’s been working on it all day! Until later, Vorstag, Gerhild,” he nodded to each of them before continuing down the street towards the mill.

“How did they know we would arrive today?” Gerhild asked, a little bewildered.

“I, ah, may have written them,” he scratched the side of his nose, hiding most of his expression, “To let them know we would be coming through this way, wanting to visit. Just good fortune we made it on the day I thought we’d make it.” Damn, that sounded lame even to his ears, but she thankfully didn’t comment.

The inside of the town’s tavern wasn’t any quieter, as she expected. Amazingly enough, Orgnar, the inn’s new proprietor, had one room available, it having been vacated just that morning. Vorstag paid for it upfront and set their packs in it, before coming back out to the main room where Gerhild stood, staring at all the strangers.

“Shall we?” he asked softly, extending his elbow to her. She shook herself out of her musings and took his arm, allowing him to steer her outside.

The evening air was cooling off, the light turning dusky and orange. Gerhild made to turn up the street, heading back into town, but Vorstag didn’t turn with her. She looked at him, curious, and he only shrugged. “It’s a little early yet. Why don’t we, ah, walk for a bit, if you’re up to it?”

“I’m up to it,” she pouted. “You don’t have to keep making such a fuss about my pregnancy, Vorstag. The babe hasn’t hindered me as yet…”

“Other than this morning,” he countered, flashing his shit-eating grin.

“Aye, that’s started,” she rolled her eyes, but fell into step beside him. “But the rest of me is fine. No problems. No worries. No undo pain or…” her words suddenly stopped, her jaw gaping. “Vorstag!”

“What?” he asked, more than a little alarmed at her vehemence.

“You’ve done it again,” she accused. “You’re acting all worried and fussing over me, obsessing about fictional problems, so I don’t obsess about them. Admit it!”

He kept his chin lifted resolutely, his lips pressed thin. They passed underneath the guards’ walkway and left the road, following a track next to the river on the same side as the town.

“Vorstag…”

“Aye, fine, I admit it.” He looked at her finally, a little sheepish, a little hopeful, “But it has worked so far, hasn’t it?”

She drew a weary sigh, hating to admit it but knowing she should, “Aye, it has. You ass.” She gave a begrudging sort of laugh, and he flashed her that grin she loved so much.

They continued in comfortable silence for a while, listening to the swiftly flowing river beside them, the chirping of birds in trees around them, the rustling of grass and leaves beneath their feet. “It is beautiful here,” she hummed, “Peaceful. It feels…” she paused for a moment, searching for the words. It was a strange sensation she was trying to define, part something remembered of her first real experience of Skyrim, and part something she could never know she missed until she found it. “It feels… warm… welcoming… belonging…”

“Like home?” he asked, sounding so hopeful she had to smile encouragingly at him.

“Like home,” she agreed. She lifted her face towards his, feeling a nearly undeniable urge to kiss him.

“Good, because, well, that’s why we’re here.” They broke out of the trees, coming to the end of the track. Gerhild stopped and gasped, all words escaping her, all thought as well, as she stared at the clearing before them.

A house was being built. No, not a small cottage or farmhouse, she corrected herself, but a mansion or estate—definitely something large if the foundation already laid for the main building could be believed. There were also outbuildings staged around the area, some obvious like a stable, others a mystery to her. One part of the mansion was being built against the side of the mountain, centered over a tunnel opening.

“…Vorstag…” Her voice was small, lost, like a child in the woods. Her hand clenched his, strong and shaking at the same time.

“I’ve always wanted to say this, my love,” he stared at her face, taking unrestrained enjoyment in the emotions drowning her features. “Welcome home.”

“…home…” She couldn’t give voice to the word, but her lips conveyed the message all the same.

“Aye, home,” he started forwards again, pulling her along with him, “Our home.”

Her eyes remained wide, trying to look everywhere at once.

“Ralof helped me locate and purchase the property.” He gave a small laugh, a bit rueful, “It was hard, trying to find just the right place. I remember you saying you wanted to be next to water, and the mountains, and trees, and have a view without neighbors, and a dozen other little things that contradicted themselves.” He laughed again, “Did I get close enough?”

“Oh, Vorstag,” she barely managed to say.

“The main house will be here,” he showed her around, “Two stories, with a tower over there for a library. Or something else, if you prefer. You see the old bear den at the back of the house? I’m having it enlarged into several rooms, to make a place safe from dragons. From the top of the tower—it’ll be right here—you can sit and look out over the plains, and see Whiterun just over there.”

“Oh, Vorstag,” she sighed again, a little stronger. Tears clouded her eyes, or she might have enjoyed the view. “It’s ours? Truly? Our home?”

“Our home,” he affirmed. “Your’s, mine, and the babe’s. We’ll be safe here from dragons, with High Hrothgar just over our heads. And you have your trees and water. And a view without neighbors blocking it, though there will be friends nearby, just up the road in Riverwood, should we ever have need. Ralof helped me find and purchase the plot, anonymously, so no one will know the Dragonborn lives here. Even the workers don’t know whom they’re working for, only that they’re building a mansion for some lordling, getting steady work and making steady pay.”

She brushed the tear of joy from her lashes. “You’re quite proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

“I tried my best.”

“You’ve done well, my love,” she said, hugging him tightly. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

“Welcome home, Gerhild, I love you.” He kissed the top of her head, rocking her in his arms.

She turned her head to see the view, clearer now that some of the tears had escaped, a large part of Whiterun Hold seeming to spread out beneath them. She remembered the first time she saw Whiterun, the first hold capital she’d seen in Skyrim, the place she kept returning to, and knew he was right. This was home. “I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, special thanks to Bugs who designed Gerhild’s hair for this special occasion. *blows kisses*
> 
> There was originally a scene in here with our good friend Norilar, but I decided to move it to the next chapter. It didn't quite fit with the theme of this chapter.
> 
> Also, I know this chapter got choppy towards the end, I’m sorry, but I’m trying to get through the mushy stuff and back to some action! And action is coming, I promise! *runs off, babbling incoherently, arms flailing through the air*


	4. Fair Warnings

Aventus stood, silent and still in his black and red armor, the hood pulled up and veil in place to cover his features. The shack was filthy, the air inside stale, the gruesome props necessary to the Black Sacrament adding to the unpalatable ambiance. He felt unclean simply being there, breathing the air through his veil, feeling the cloying foulness penetrate his armor and soak into his pores. He was a member of the Dark Brotherhood, he was used to death and gore, but he could feel his gorge rising at the back of his throat.

The other man wasn’t any better than his surroundings, dressed in little more than rags. His hair was grimy and stuck out limply from beneath the corners of his cowl. His ill-fitting clothing was tattered and worn through in places, stained with more than spilled food. He looked half-starved, his face even longer and his cheekbones even more pronounced than a normal Altmer. In the dim candlelight Aventus could see an unholy glint in his eyes, something akin to madness born from desperation.

“You will do it?” the hoarse and exhausted voice rasped eerily from beneath that grungy cowl. Aventus could remember a time his own voice sounded similar, and for similar reasons.

He refused the impulse to move, even as the Altmer reached out to grip his arm.

“You must do it,” the other insisted. “I performed the Sacrament. You came. That’s acceptance. And you can do this. You can succeed where I have failed. I shouldn’t have failed. I never fail. But with her…” Shaky, pallid fingers reached up to rub at the side of his head, the memory as painful as an arrow through the gut.

Aventus stared at him, listening to his words digress into mindless, drooling gibberish. He wanted to turn and leave the filthy and disgusting cabin.

Or kill the poor bastard and put him out of his misery.

“It all started with her,” the words grew coherent once more, as the Altmer dropped his hand to his side. “It will all end with her. Kill her. That’s the contract. Kill the bitch. I've been unable to. I've followed her. I've seen her face. I've learned her name. Everyone speaks of her in Windhelm; it's no secret here. But I couldn't get close enough to kill her, not without her seeing me. Now she's disappeared. I cannot find her… for so long…

“But you can!” he lunged forward, both hands gripping the front of Aventus’ armor with a surprisingly fierce strength. “Only you can. The Dark Brotherhood. And think of it! Think of the fame! No one will dare oppose your Brotherhood, knowing that your reach can extend to a powerful person such as Gerhild North-Wind. Kill her, and you not only fulfill the contract, you make your Brotherhood legendary.”

Aventus truly wouldn’t have been surprised if the other’s eyes started glowing like a Draugr’s, or if he spontaneously burst into flames for speaking such blasphemy. No wonder this contract upset the Night Mother so much.

“That’s the contract. Kill the Dragonborn. Here,” he pressed a purse into Aventus’ stomach, but the assassin made no move to accept it, “All the money I could steal, er, collect. Yes, that’s it. I collected this money. Donations. To pay for this contract. And there will be more coin, from Elenwen herself, once the chit is dead. Simply bring me her head, the Dragonborn’s head, not Elenwen’s head, of course. Bring me Gerhild’s head, and you and your brothers and sisters will have more gold than you could spend in ten lifetimes!”

His brow furrowed as Aventus continued to refuse to move, even to take hold of the purse. Just as suddenly the frown lifted.

“Oh, wait, I see. You don’t accept the money until the contract is fulfilled. Very wise. That way, if you fail, no hard feelings from the customer. But you never fail, do you,” he leaned over to wink.

Aventus’ gorge rose up again, making him taste bile as he swallowed.

“Very well. I’ll await word of your success. Once I hear the Dragonborn is dead, I’ll come back here, and pay you, and get her head, and return to the Isles, and get the rest of your payment from Elenwen. Oh, yes, yes, that’s what I’ll do. What you’ll do. We’ll do this, together, you and I, and you’ll get your coin, and I’ll be a Thalmor once more…” His eyes glazed over as his words again trailed off into that drooling gibberish. And just like that he dismissed the assassin. He knelt down beside the effigy and began to finger the long blonde hair, stroking it as if the mane belonged to a real person instead of a macabre arrangement of bits of flesh and bone.

Aventus had to leave. He had to escape the stale and morbid air before he vomited into his veil. He turned on his heel and stalked away, almost bursting through the door before he could wrench it open. Outside the cold mountain air stung his eyes and burned his lungs, but he kept breathing and pacing away, purging himself inside and out, trying to clean off the insane aura that seemed to want to cling to him.

Kill Gerhild…?

He made it to a stream, some small distance from the cabin, and yanked his veil aside just in time. He was glad he hadn’t eaten much that day, as the unpleasant task was over fairly quickly, but he remained kneeling for a long time, simply breathing.

…kill…?

He could feel her, the Night Mother, approaching him within his thoughts. He tried to make himself feel obedient, tried to hide his reluctance towards this contract, but she would know regardless. He gave it up and sat there, shoulders slumped, defeated before he could begin to fight.

_“No, my son, do not be ashamed. Your loyalty to your friend does you honor.”_

“Not her. Please, Mother, please, we… I… I can’t kill her. She’s… she’s like a… a sister to me… family… like you and the others…”

 _“Hush, dear boy, hush,”_ she cooed in his thoughts, and he could imagine her cool hands on his face, brushing back his hair, soothing his fears. _“Your Father and I have already conversed. It is as we feared—someone wants to use us to kill the Dragonborn. Now, calm yourself, and listen closely to me. This is what you will do…”_

* * *

Ulfric stared coldly at the missive lying hateful and spiteful on the table. It had been a long time in coming.  The courier—a Nord who had been an Imperial soldier, though he had resigned after the end of the Civil War—didn’t want to enter Windhelm himself due to his unfavorable past. Therefore he'd waited in a tavern in Kynesgrove until a military courier came through, and convinced the Stormcloak to add the letter from Steward Vignar to the rest of the dispatches. The result: it had taken months for the letter to reach him, far too late for him to do anything about the contents!

Gerhild. Married. To that Oblivion-damned mercenary!

Involuntarily his fingers flexed, curling from claws into a fist, making the leather of his glove creak.

“Well, that is good news,” voiced Galmar in a tone that said he had noticed his Jarl’s—his High King’s—reaction, and knew very well that Ulfric saw this as anything BUT good news.

“Oh!” the single sound Nilsine made held so much emotion, starting on a normal note before rising up to end with a little catch. She had followed the two men into Ulfric’s war room, after learning that the missive from Whiterun held news about Gerhild. Normally she wouldn’t have been allowed into the room—she had none of the abilities required for running a kingdom. Though he had allowed it this one time, knowing how much she loved Gerhild, his tolerance had quickly turned to cold ire.

Nilsine lifted eyes up to him, shining with so much suppressed joy she couldn't see his features. “I knew it! I knew he loved her! And of course she would love him; it just took her a while to realize it…”

Ulfric turned back to the table and tried to ignore her babbling, needing to think. Gerhild and Vorstag. The faithless bitch! She had sworn to him that she couldn’t stand the touch of any man; that was why he had reluctantly agreed to back down, to give her time and space, and wait until she was comfortable around men—around him. But he saw the truth of it now. It wasn’t that she couldn’t stand to have any man love her—it was him she couldn’t stand.

He had been a fool to share his scars with her. He had taken a chance, allowed her to see what even he himself could rarely look at, and it had disgusted her. Yet again his scarred form had turned away someone close to him, soured their disposition, changed their affection into pity. Like it had Galmar. Like it would Nilsine if she ever saw. Only Maeganna had ever been able to see past the ruined body to the man who was still there, still inside, still in need. And Gerhild was not her mother; she had proven that!

“We must invite them here. Have a feast in their honor. This needs to be celebrated!” Nilsine had continued to talk, oblivious of the darkness spreading across Ulfric’s features, or Galmar’s uneasy shifting from foot-to-foot. She moved closer, thinking his hesitance meant that she had to persuade her husband, and set a slender hand on his arm. “Please, Ulfric. I know it’s an expense, and there are other matters that need attention in Skyrim, like roads and patrols and such. But please, the people need to celebrate as much as they need a bridge repaired.”

Galmar cleared his throat, “I don’t think that’s such a good idea…”

“I disagree,” Ulfric spoke suddenly, his deep voice countering Galmar. Realizing how harsh he had sounded, he forced a smile large enough to shift aside his goatee and took Nilsine’s hand in his. “Or rather, I agree with Nilsine. This is a cause for celebration, and who better to toast the Dragonborn’s good fortune, than the High King of Skyrim?” The question was rhetorical, so when out of the corner of his eye he saw Galmar opening his mouth to answer, he quickly added, “I’ll trust you with those arrangements, Nilsine; you know more about planning menus and entertainment than I do. See Jorleif for anything you need, and as soon as you think you know the date, I’ll pen the invitation myself.”

“Oh!” she made that little catching sound again, and he was reminded briefly of some sort of small startled animal. “Thank you, husband. This is going to be wonderful! Just think of the festivities. There will have to be a theme, dragons would be too obvious and far too serious for the occasion, perhaps roses or some other flower she likes, or maybe a songbird, decorate the whole Hall like a forest. Oh, I don’t know what to do!” She lifted eyes wide and apprehensive to flicker between the two men. “Excuse me! I… I have so much to plan… so much to take care of… and so little time… I… I don’t know what… excuse me!”

With a deliberate though unsettled set to her shoulders, she hoisted up her skirts by the fistful and spun around for the door. Before it closed behind her, she was already calling for Jorleif, near the verge of panic while trying to wrestle control over it.

Yrsarald, her escort, had been waiting outside the room, knowing she was in no danger while with her husband and his housecarl. Seeing her burst into the main hall, all flustered determination and semi-focused energy, he quickly grew concerned and doggedly followed on her heels, asking what was wrong while trying to understand her incoherent stream of words.

Ulfric continued to stare at the door with narrowed eyes, imagining he could see through it, see Yrsarald’s young and unblemished form looming over her, offering support, assistance, protection…

Love…

“Ulfric, are you sure you…”

“Do not question me.” The words were quiet, deadly, spoken slowly. And the heat within them chilled Galmar to the bone. Ulfric must have noticed his reaction, or his own reaction, because in the next moment he slipped a mask in place, one that was cordial and aloof and matched the calmer tone of his voice. “Nilsine and Gerhild are friends. I think she sees Gerhild as a sort of replacement for the sister she lost. It will make her happy, celebrating her friend’s marriage. So, aye, Galmar, I’m sure this is a good idea. Now, how are the fortifications progressing in The Pale?”

“The city of Dawnstar still needs major reconstruction,” Galmar replied, his tone formal to hide his wariness, “But the new port is nearly finished.”

“Jarl Skald will have to see to the city himself,” droned Ulfric. “I am only concerned with fortifying the port, erecting bulwarks and stationing troops, ensuring that the Thalmor will not be able to invade along the north coast. Winterhold is fairly secure, thanks to the cliffs. And Haafingar doesn’t worry me, not with all the resources in Solitude at Jarl Elisif’s disposal; and the fortifications the Imperials made. But the Pale is too open…”

Galmar listened to his Jarl, his High King—his friend—talk about an invasion from the Thalmor as if they were already on their way. He was sure they wouldn’t invade, not any time soon. Gerhild had given them enough of a bloody nose, they would undoubtedly wait until she was dead before they tried to invade Skyrim. But Ulfric was obsessed with the idea, so Galmar played along and tried to keep his High King from going too far…

Like starting the war himself.

* * *

Vorstag traced his hand over skin as soft as cream. The body before him squirmed, an elbow tucking into the side, trying to protect the sensitive area.

“That tickles!”

He smiled, unrepentant, and wrapped his arms around Gerhild. “Just making sure you knew I was still here.”

She glared at him over her shoulder, trying to maintain an air of indignation and mild outrage, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “I’m sitting on your lap. How could I not know you’re here?”

He nodded towards the papers in her hands, his own hands fully occupied with her breasts. “You were reading and thinking, and I know how you get when you think too deeply.” They were sitting on the rug, going through the chest Gerhild kept locked in the master bedchamber in Breezehome. He set his chin on her shoulder, her skin warm, and squinted his eyes to read a short missive she held. The fingers of one hand crested the slight mound of her stomach to dip down between her legs, causing her to mold her body against his.

She made a small gasp, but made no effort to stop him. “So you distract me?”

“You’re the one who’s sitting naked on my lap.”

“You’re just as naked,” she countered, before realizing she was playing directly—and literally—into his hands. Thankfully he didn’t rub her obvious blunder in her face, but he did laugh, soft and deep, and kissed behind her ear.

“Put aside those papers,” he suggested. “We can decide in the morning what to bring to our new home.”

“Fuck it,” she tossed the papers haphazardly into the chest. “We’ll take the whole damn thing.” With her arms and hands free, she wiggled around until she was facing him, still sitting on his lap. She burrowed her fingers into his long brown hair, matted with sweat from their earlier lovemaking, and kissed him deeply.

“You sure?” he asked, pulling away to catch his breath. There were still a few piles of papers and books scattered on the floor around them. He eyed them now, mindful of knocking over one or two of the piles, as he leaned back and draped her form over his.

“Aye,” she sighed, her hands now doing the caressing. “There’s nothing in there I want anyone else to see. Might as well take it all with us when we move.”

“It’s only that,” he had to pause when she took a gentle nip at his chest, “Ah, I mean, the chest, and those books…” He broke off to suck in a sharp breath, her tongue teasing his navel. She bent her head even further, her bow shaped lips drawn into a mischievous grin. “It’ll be too heavy, all packed together like that.” He moaned when her mouth enveloped his cock. His hands gripped her hair, half pulling her away, half holding her in place. “Gods, Gerhild… don’t…”

She didn’t let up, even if his hands couldn’t make up their minds whether or not they wanted her to continue. She had grown accustomed to his body, to reading those little signs that told her when he was enjoying himself, and when he was about to come too close to the edge. She timed it perfectly, pulling her mouth away before he became too aroused, making a popping sound that echoed loudly in the quiet house.

“Relax…” she whispered, sliding her body along his length once more. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Can’t,” he moaned, his eyes squeezed shut. “If I relax, I’ll… oof!”

Her hand had knocked against a pile of books, threatening to send it crashing into them. She tried to stop it, bringing both hands around to catch the books, and causing her body to fall forcefully on top of his. He made a sound when the air was forced from his lungs, his hands coming up to grip her and lift her off of him. At the same time, the books finally toppled into other stacks, sending them crashing into others, and those into more, until nearly every pile had tumbled into one big mess. One stack of dossiers fell against the side of his head. He winced, flinching away as a sharp corner poked his temple, but otherwise remained unharmed.

They lay there for a moment in the quiet aftermath, the only sound their breathing. Gerhild looked around with wide, deep blue eyes, her lips parted invitingly. Vorstag lifted his head to glance around at the mess, merely acknowledging its existence, before returning his attention to the beautiful woman above him.

“Oops.”

He smiled at her simple statement, agreeing with a chuckle that had her bouncing on his chest. He pecked her lips, pulling her focus back to him, and suggested, “Let’s pack all this up, then go to bed.”

“Aye, I suppose we should,” she sighed. She pushed herself off of him, crawling on hands and knees to begin gathering some loose papers. “Or we could just go to bed, and clean this up in the morning?” she countered archly.

He smiled, clearly she was still in the mood. “Nope. Work first, then play.” It was torture for him to sit there, very much aroused, and see her perfect ass squirming in front of him. Yet he knew, if they didn’t clean this up now, then come morning Lydia would insist she do it. He was positive Gerhild would balk at that, so it was better they do this themselves. He picked up the dossiers that had fallen near his head, looking at them curiously. “What are these?” He opened one and started reading.

She hummed questioningly before looking over her shoulder. Seeing what it was, she left him to his reading while she gathered up a few more slim volumes—her diaries—and put them in order before repacking them. “Oh, I picked those up a couple of years ago, from the Thalmor Embassy. I was looking for one dossier in particular, but didn't want to take the time to hunt through the whole stack, so I took all of them, figuring to look for the one I needed when I wasn’t trying to sneak through an estate full of Thalmor.”

She had been sure he would ask more questions, like whose dossier she had been looking for, but he remained silent. She set her books in the chest before turning to look at him. He was staring at the pages of the folder, and she thought at first that he was only absorbed in reading, the skill somewhat new to him. Yet his eyes grew wide, and his mouth went slack. When his hands began to tremble, she grew alarmed. “Vorstag? What is it?”

He looked up at her at last, but shook his head, unable to explain what he had read. “I… they…” he gestured with the dossier, “…Ulfric…”

She walked on her knees to his side, holding out her hands for the dossier, which he passed over absently, as if he were in a dream. She didn’t speak, didn’t ask, but dropped her gaze to the yellowed paper.

It was a thick file, dating back years, back to the Great War. She glanced through it, having already known that Ulfric had been imprisoned and tortured by Elenwen during that time. Yet the pages continued after his escape, telling of meetings that were made to look like chance, of non-Altmer agents feeding him rumors and half-truths, all through the years until Helgen…

“Stuhn’s Shield,” she breathed. “They… gods help us… the Thalmor… they used him… made him think he was responsible for the fall of Imperial City. They… they drove him to start the Civil War… to keep the war going… keep the Empire distracted…” Her eyes were wide and full of shock, a perfect mirror image of Vorstag, when she finally broke her gaze from the pages. “We… we can never show him this.” One hand let go of the dossier, the pages tumbling to the floor, as she gripped his arm. “Vorstag, if he knew, if he discovered, after all these years, that he was doing exactly what the Thalmor wanted him to do, that his desire to free Skyrim from the Empire was planted in his mind, by the Thalmor, by Elenwen… Talos have mercy! It would unmake him!”

He swallowed and nodded, trying not to think. He had not known Ulfric had been tortured, and the thought was bringing back memories of his own torture. “No,” he shook his head, agreeing with her because it was the easiest thing to do and didn’t require thought. “No, we can’t. We won’t.” He picked up the pages that had fallen, neatened the stack, put it back in the folder, and closed it. Then he took the folder and placed it in the chest, tucked away at the very bottom.

“Vorstag?” He looked back at her, sitting alone among the scattered missives and books, her eyes glazed as she looked at that which only she could see, her lower lip trembling and threatening to spill a torrent of words. “Do you think there’s a dossier, like this, on me, on how they could control me, use me?”

Of course, he mentally slapped himself, Gerhild had also been tortured. “No,” he answered clearly, putting confidence he didn’t feel into his words. He gathered her in his arms, holding her close, stroking her hair, trying to ignore the way she shook like a leaf about to fall from a tree. “Well, there probably is a dossier, somewhere, on what little they know about you.” He pulled back just far enough to brush the hair away from her cheeks. “But I know what you’re thinking; and forget it. They didn’t know then who you were, who you would become. You didn’t even know then, so how could they have done anything to you, like they did to Ulfric? No, Gerhild, the Thalmor don’t control you. They can’t. You’re the Dragonborn.”

“But…” her voice rang with strong emotions. He knew he had to calm her down, help her through this, before she tried to retreat behind a wall of ice like she had before.

“I know for a fact,” he paused to swallow, hating having to bring back those memories—to reference them in any way—but she needed this, “That they know very little about you. Why else would Norilar have worked so hard to capture me on a mere suspicion that I might know the Dragonborn? And all that time they had me, I didn’t tell him a damn thing, you know that.” He kissed her forehead, but she didn’t act as if she knew was there. “No, they knew very little, if anything, back then. And what they know now is the same as everyone else, so that’s nothing to worry about.”

“But… that means they’ll soon know Gerhild North-Wind and the Dragonborn are one and the same,” she gripped his biceps, her fingernails turning white with the pressure. “I won’t be safe. You won’t. The babe…”

“Shh,” he held a little tighter, trying to silence her mumbling against his shoulder. He wished she would ease the pressure of her fingers a little bit, imagining he could feel the bruises already forming, but he wouldn’t pull away, not when she needed him so badly. “We’ll be safe, my love. Why do you think I’m being so careful about our new home? I had Ralof buy the property and hire the workers. We’ve only been there the one time, when no one else was there, and we won’t be back until the workers are finished. And you know everyone—everyone!—in Riverwood is loyal to you. No one’s gonna talk about the Dragonborn living just down the road.” He leaned back again to see her face. Though full of tears, her eyes were focused on him, blinking furiously to shove the emotions back. “We’ll be safe and anonymous in our new home. And until then, we have all of Whiterun to shelter us. And that includes the Companions. Besides,” he bent his head to kiss her lips, and felt relief when her lips moved minimally to kiss him back, “The Thalmor are gone from Skyrim. How can they harm you now? Harm us?” He dropped his hand to her belly, the fingertips brushing over where the babe was growing. “We, all three of us, are safe. Trust me.”

She offered him a weak smile, the tears finally spilling down her cheeks. “I trust you, Vorstag. Only I don’t trust Norilar.”

He brushed one cheek free of the moisture with the pad of his thumb, “Norilar is gone with the rest…” His voice trailed away as she began shaking her head.

“No, he’s not.”

If the silence was deafening, it was because the pain in his eyes took all the air from the room. “…what…?”

Guilt tore through her as she sought a way to explain her lapse in memory. “I know, I should have said something earlier, but the topic never came up.” She finally released her death-grip on his arms, though he didn’t let her shift out of his grasp, his hands on her shoulders again, keeping her facing him. It was his continued silence, however, that unnerved her the most. She forced her lower lip out from between her teeth and elaborated, “Before the Civil War ended, even before we took Solitude, the Thalmor fled Skyrim. The Embassy looked like it had been deserted for a long time; whatever was left behind had been burned until it was unrecognizable. We thought all the Thalmor had gone, since there was no place left for them to find sanctuary.

“After we took Solitude, in the crowd there was an Altmer wearing a green cowl. I knew, I just knew, it was Norilar. He’d have to wear a hood to hide his stump of an ear. I started towards him, I couldn’t let him get away, but he disappeared, cowl and all. No one I questioned remembered seeing him. I told myself I had imagined him, and tried to forget about it.

“But then, as the Stormcloaks marched across Skyrim to Windhelm for the Moot, whenever we’d stop for a celebration or a speech in one Hold or another, whenever a crowd gathered to stare at the Dragonborn and Jarl Ulfric, the Liberators of Skyrim, I’d see him again. That damned green-hooded Altmer. He kept pace with the army so faithfully, I figured I had to be imagining him. Only one day, Ralof commented that he kept seeing the same green cowl, wherever a crowd gathered.” She finally lifted her eyes to his, afraid to see the reprimand he had every right to give her for keeping this from him. His face was too full of shock, however, for the rebuke to show clearly. That expression, that lost and hope-bereft look on his face—like the one he had worn after being rescued from Northwatch Keep—cut her deeper than any spell or sword or dragon’s claw. “I’m sorry, Vorstag, I’m so sorry, I know, I should’ve mentioned something…”

“No!” he stopped her, coming out of his painful memories to silence her apologies, “No, it’s… never mind. We’ve had more important things on our minds than that nasty, piece of work, son-of-a-bitch. Is he still following you? Us? Have you seen him?”

She shook her head, relieved that he wasn’t upset with her, or at least willing to set it aside, “Not for a long time, not since the war with the vampires. I must’ve lost him when I became a vampire. And since I haven’t done anything as the Dragonborn after defeating Lord Harkon, he must not have been able to pick up my trail again.”

“Well, alright then, good,” he nodded, a stubborn set to his thin lips. “But if you see him again, if you even think you might have imagined him, tell me, alright? Promise?” She nodded, and he relaxed again, cradling her in his arms. “Maybe, if we’re lucky, he found a way to follow you into Blackreach and got stuck down there.”

The joke was weak, but the attempt was sincere, signaling he was back in his right mind. She laughed, a small and weak sound, showing that she was feeling better as well.

“Go to bed,” he kissed her hair.

“But the books…”

“I’ll finish cleaning up and lock the chest. Go. Lie down. I’ll be there in a minute.”

She didn’t want to leave his side, but enough revelations had occurred; perhaps they each needed a few moments to think. She was afraid he was angry with her, but when she was slow in getting up, he gave her another tender kiss and stood up with her.

No, everything wasn’t alright, but it would be.

She crawled into the bedclothes, cowering under the pelts, watching him with cool violet eyes, like wide pools of midnight. He glanced at her from time to time, finding her gaze never left him, and would give her that same small though reassuring smile before returning to packing.

He needed time to think. Time to get his mind straight. Norilar was still in Skyrim. Though she hadn't seen him for some time, that didn’t mean he had left. He would be here; his obsession with finding Gerhild bordered on insanity. And the thought that the sick bastard had been following her…

Vorstag swallowed thickly, setting the last stack of letters into the chest before closing the lid. He knew what Norilar was capable of, remembered each and every technique, even which were Norilar’s favorites—and which had nearly broken him. Though the physical scars had been removed, the emotional ones remained, deep and tender to the touch. And damn him, but Norilar was able to drive a spike into those wounds even without being near!

Standing up from the chest, he found Gerhild was still watching him, still waiting, probably feeling nervous or guilty or responsible for something that wasn’t her fault. Once she might have locked these emotions away, hid them behind a wall of impenetrable ice, but no longer now that they had each other. He turned down the lamps, leaving only a single candle burning beside the bed. When he got beneath the covers, he held his arms out for her and took a deep breath when she curled up into his side. His hand stroked her back, brushing though the hair and touching the marred skin beneath, and he knew: she needed to finish healing before she could fully recover.

“Gerhild?”

“Aye?”

Damn, but her voice threatened to break, confirming his suspicions; she was feeling guilty. If—no—when they found Norilar, when they tracked him down or set a trap and waited for him to track them down, he was going to take care of the bastard himself. He wasn't going to let her do anything to the piece of shit; never again would Norilar cause her guilt or grief. Until then… “There’s something I want you to do, for me.”

“Anything,” she promised unthinkingly.

“Wait until I ask, before you promise that,” he pecked her forehead. His hand stroked her back again, the pads of his fingers tracing the marks Norilar had given her, and said, “Get rid of these scars.”

She tensed, one of her hands half curled into a fist, catching a few of his chest hairs.

“Please, Gerhild, they only cause you pain, bringing back those things you need to put behind you. Give them up. The Thalmor are gone, and I promise you we will find Norilar, both of us, and finish him. You don’t need scars for that. You only need me. And I’m here; I’m not going anywhere, not without you.”

She looked like she didn’t want to, her brow scrunched stubbornly and her lips frowning, but she nodded. “I will. Soon as the babe’s born. Before Alduin.” She caught his eye, and forced a timid smile to pull sadly at her mouth, “I promise.”

He smiled back, a little stronger, and said, “That’s a good girl.”

It was a poor imitation of their late friend, Ogmund, but it worked well enough, the tension easing out of her body. Vorstag didn’t try for anything more, knowing the mood was ruined for the night, but let himself drift off to sleep with his love in his arms.

Gerhild took a little longer to relinquish to slumber, her brow faintly furrowed in the candlelight. It was hard, letting go of those scars; they had defined her for years, kept her hatred alive and her resolve strong. Yet he was right, damn it, she didn’t need the scars—not any longer. When she had been young and alone in the world, trying to find her way, to discover what fate awaited her as Dragonborn, then aye she had used those scars as her insignia, her family crest, her heraldry to give her purpose. She still had purpose, and could concede the fact that any physical marring of skin was not required for her to keep to that purpose.

But—damn it!—it was hard to let go after spending years clinging so desperately.

She supposed she slept; there appeared to be a passage of time. The stub of the candle had given up its flickering flame and was now giving off a pathetic glow at the very tip of the wick. She blinked, wondering what had awoken her, but no sound reached her ears, no shifting shade darkened the shadows, no change in temperature across her skin signaled the nearness of another body.

Yet she knew they weren’t alone.

With reflexes born from years of fighting dragon and draugr, vampires and Falmer, Gerhild jumped up from the bed and unerringly found the would-be assailant. There was the sound of air forcefully pushed from someone’s lungs as she shoved the body against the wall. One of her forearms crossed the throat, not hard enough to crush the larynx but still making breathing difficult. Her other hand wrapped around a wrist, her grip pinching enough to threaten circulation. One thigh pressed against a groin, a not-to-be-ignored danger if the intruder was a man. With her face a breath away from the other’s face, she waited for the next move.

It came from Vorstag. He had felt Gerhild’s hasty departure from their bed, and in a semi-somnolent state he pushed himself up onto his elbows and blinked around the near impenetrable darkness. “Hmm, Gerhild?” he asked, stifling a yawn, thinking that the morning sickness thing had returned. He supposed he should offer to fetch her something to settle her stomach, if she needed it. “’s everything alright?”

“Vorstag,” she said, her voice cool and calm, floating out of the shadows, “I want you to light a candle.”

He felt the hackles lifting on the back of his neck, even before his brain shook off the last of sleep and realized there was danger. Here. In Whiterun. In their fucking bedchamber! Immediately he rolled from beneath the covers and fumbled around the small table beside the bed, lighting a fresh candle quickly despite his racing heart and twitching fingers.

The sight that met him nearly made him drop the candle. Across the room Gerhild had a man pinned against the wall, a man clad in dark leather armor, red and black and veiled. Dark Brotherhood armor. The two stood frozen, neither daring to do more than breathe, a dagger held in his free hand and pointed at her ribs. “What the fuck…?

Gerhild didn’t dare to take her gaze off of the pair of eyes staring at her. Ignoring Vorstag’s state for the time being—she knew he wasn’t in immediate danger—she kept her focus on her would-be assassin. “Stay where you are, Vorstag. He has me in a stalemate.” She thought she should know those eyes, that they belonged to a particular young man, someone she had last seen a few years ago in a very similar predicament.

And a few years before that, bloodshot and tearful and exhausted.

So why was he here now, she wondered, in her bedchamber in the middle of the night?

“Actually, Lady Gerhild,” the man’s voice confirmed his identity, which only served to increase her unease and confusion, “You have me completely in your mercy. I could no sooner kill you with this dagger, than you could me.”

To emphasize his point, the assassin thrust his fist against her chest.

Vorstag cried out, cursing his stupidity and trust in Gerhild. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t closed in on the two, because she told him not to move. He should have ignored her, should have followed his first instincts and launched himself into the fray, separated the two, taken the killing blow himself…

It was too late now, the bed between him and the other two, but he cleared it in a single magnificent leap, a feral growl on his lips and death glowing in his eyes.

As he landed, his foot bumped against something cold and hard, sending it skittering across the floor. He cursed and looked down in surprise, watching the dagger—which had been in the assassin’s hand a moment ago—spin away, the untarnished blade reflecting the candle still clutched in his fist.

“Fuck,” he cursed again, with a lot less heat this time. He lifted his eyes from the dagger to the other two, who were standing exactly as they had been before the thrust, only the man’s tightly clenched fist was now empty. He let them be for the moment, stooping to pick up the dagger and examine it. As he suspected, it was familiar, though he hadn’t seen it in years.

“Can we talk?” the assassin asked, swallowing thickly around the forearm still pressed against his throat.

Gerhild didn’t move for several breaths, far too deep in her thoughts for a time like this. It took Vorstag’s cough to bring her back to the current situation. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him set the candle on the nearby table before picking up a robe to drape over her shoulders. He held onto the dagger, however, examining it with a strange look on his face. “Ya know, I always wondered what happened to this,” he hummed, gesturing with the blade. “Caused me quite a few heart attacks, back when we first met.”

And just like that, she was back to her self again. The corner of her mouth twitched, remembering how she had nearly scared the piss out of Vorstag, the first time he woke her and she thrust the enchanted dagger at his throat. Even after she explained the blade wouldn’t harm the friend of whoever wielded it, even after she let him attack her with it, he had remained antsy every time she brought it out. She didn’t let go of the assassin, but she did relax her stance a little. “Fine, you’ve proven you’re not here to kill me. But why are you here?”

“How about, who are you?” Vorstag asked. “Seems I’m missing a bit…”

“I’d be delighted to introduce myself, but…” the assassin stretched his neck suggestively.

“Not until I know why you are here,” she pressed her forearm a little harder again. “You might not be here for me, but there are others in this house. Such as Lydia.”

“She’s fine,” he protested. “I shot her with a dart infused with a mild paralysis potion. Never knew what hit her. Should wake up in the morning with no ill effects.”

“And Vorstag?”

“No, I’m not here for him, either. I swear it. I’m only here to deliver a message. Like last time.”

“Last time…?” Vorstag repeated, bewildered. “You’ve been here before?”

He laughed, as well as he could around his throat being half-choked. “Not here. Windhelm.” He turned his attention back to Gerhild. “I think you had me in a similar hold that night. Going to Shout me out of a window again?”

“That was you?” Vorstag asked, coming up to loom over the two, the enchanted dagger still in his hand. “You’re the assassin who tried to kill Lady Nilsine?”

“I didn’t try to kill her,” he protested, rubbing his throat as Gerhild finally stood back. “I mean, aye, she was part of a contract, but her death was optional. And when I saw she was friends with Lady Gerhild, I decided to deliver a warning instead.” He looked her straight in the eye, “Like I’m doing now.”

“What do you mean?” Vorstag asked, leaning in with the dagger as Gerhild stepped away to slip her arms into her robe. “Who, exactly, are you?”

“My name is Aventus Aretino,” he eyed the blade’s tip aimed directly at his eye socket. “And, aye, I’m a member of the Dark Brotherhood. Lady Gerhild can tell you all about our first meeting later. Right now, I need to deliver a message.” He turned to her, trying to ignore the murderous gaze of her husband, and said simply, “Someone wants you dead.”

“Aye,” she sighed wearily, “About a couple hundred people, I’d imagine. Who in particular this time?”

“I cannot say,” he replied. “He never gave his name, and I was under orders from the Night Mother not to speak, so I couldn’t ask his name. I can tell you: he’s an insane son-of-a-bitch, an Altmer fallen on hard times, yet resourceful and desperate enough to invoke the Black Sacrament, talked a lot about being a former Thalmor, but shoddily dressed now, kept rubbing at the side of his head through a…”

“A green cowl,” finished Vorstag. The silence that answered him was affirmation enough. With regret he watched the mask of ice slip over Gerhild’s features, both of them realizing who it was, as if speaking about him earlier had conjured his evil influence. “Fuck, it’s Norilar.”

“Where is he?”

“Wait, I got a more important question,” Vorstag held up his hand, signaling her to let him do the talking. “Why aren’t you here to kill her, or us? I mean, you’re a member of the Dark Brotherhood, and he invoked the Black Sacrament, so you’re under contract to kill Gerhild, aren’t you?”

Aventus shook his head, setting a gauntleted finger on the tip of the dagger. Vorstag took half a step back and let him push it away from his face. “Not exactly. Aye, the Sacrament was performed, and as Listener I went to hear the contract, but I never accepted it. Never even said a word; the Night Mother was very specific about that. I was to go and listen only; I wasn’t to speak or make any indication of acceptance.” He looked directly at Gerhild. “It seems you have a patron, Lady Gerhild. A very powerful patron.”

Gerhild’s eyes narrowed as she shook her head, “I don’t understand. Who…?”

Aventus took a deep breath. “I’m not sure I understand it myself, but near as I can tell, there’s an old Nordic god looking out for you. Stuhn. You’ve declared yourself his Champion. And he’s apparently so enamored with your devotion to him, that he’s interceded on your behalf several times already against the Daedric Princes, warned them to stay out of your life, and now his life, too,” he added a nod towards Vorstag. “After what Stuhn did to Sanguine when he messed with Vorstag, not a single Daedra will have anything to do with you or anyone you care about. None of them want to risk pissing off a god.”

“Sithis isn’t a Daedra,” Gerhild countered.

“He’s not,” Aventus agreed, “But he’s decided to stay out of Stuhn’s way. Besides, it’s not wise to mess with the Dragonborn. There’s too much for you to do yet, and Sithis doesn’t want to interfere, with either your’s or Alduin’s fates.”

She nodded, seemingly accepting Stuhn’s protection and presence in her life as she would a father’s love. “Alright. Now tell me, where’s Norilar, this Altmer who contacted you?”

Aventus took in a deep breath. “Can’t. Not that I don’t want to,” he leaned back when Vorstag lifted the dagger up once more, “Believe me, if anyone deserves to die, it would be him. I almost put the sorry bastard out of his misery myself, but ethics got in the way. Even if I didn’t like it, I was there to hear his contract, nothing more.”

“Where?” she repeated, her tone making it clear it was the last time she would ask the question, friend or no.

Aventus swallowed, his veil hiding his grimace. “There’s an old, rundown shack a few miles outside of Windhelm. Along the river. Not hard to miss; sort of stands all by itself. Looks like it’s been deserted for years. But like I said, I don’t think you’ll find him there. He kept talking about getting coin from someone to pay for the contract. He probably left to find his friend right after I left.”

Gerhild and Vorstag exchanged a look. “I need to, Vorstag, if he’s still there, if there’s even a chance…”

He shook his head. “No, it’s too risky for you to go. I’ll go. Alone.”

“No!” she countered, striding up into his face, forgetting they had company. “I’m pregnant, Vorstag, not made of porcelain. I’ll only be riding a horse across country, not battling dragons. I won’t endanger the babe!”

“Won’t you?” he countered, also turning away from Aventus. “You would go there with every intent of killing him. That means a fight; you can’t get around that.” He stepped closer, the dagger slipping from his fingers as he gripped her shoulders, claiming her gaze for him alone. “Remember what happened to your mother? She also couldn’t stand to stay out of a fight, even for her babe’s sake. And she did lose that child. Please, Gerhild,” his soft brown eyes begged her to see reason. “Please, stay here, in Whiterun, where it’s safe. Don’t risk the babe.” He dropped one hand to her stomach, to the swelling that was barely beginning to show. “Norilar’s cost us too much already. Don’t let him take this from us, too.”

Hot and bitter tears stung at her eyes. Accusingly she moaned, “Do you know what you’re asking of me?”

“Aye, I do,” he sighed, his voice full of an equal amount of anguish. He pulled her into his embrace, allowing her to shed her tears against his chest. “I know, Gerhild; it’s not right. It’s not fair. You are a better fighter than I am, and you have every right to be there, to capture Norilar yourself. But you can’t. Not right now. So please, let me go in your place. I’ll even take Vilkas or Farkas with me, if that’ll make you feel better.”

“It won’t,” she pouted, the words muffled against his skin.

He sensed she was beginning to cave in, and pressed his advantage. “It’ll be alright, you’ll see. Vilkas and I, we’ll go there and capture him, bring him back here so you can deal with him as you see fit.” It was an outright lie, but he prayed that she wouldn’t notice. If he found Norilar at that cabin, he was going to kill him. Aye, he’d bring his corpse back for her to see, but Norilar would die by his hand!

When she didn’t answer right away, either in denial or agreement, Aventus cleared his throat. “If you two don’t mind,” he bent over to retrieve his dagger, “I’ll leave before you speak with the Companions. I doubt it would be a good idea for us to cross paths.” He didn’t wait for an answer, but he did pause at the doorway to say, “Oh, and, ah, congratulations on, well, ya know.”

Suddenly Gerhild sniffed, turning her face towards the door though remaining within the protective circle of Vorstag’s arms. “Aventus, thank you. For the warning.”

He saw the trails of tears glistening on her cheeks, the flush of anger coating her skin, and the long-buried pain tightening the corners of her eyes. “I owe you my life, Lady Gerhild,” he said with a shrug. “If I had known how you felt about the Altmer… well… too late now, I suppose. I do wish there was something more I could do, but I’ve probably done too much already. Farewell, milady, milord,” he nodded to each of them. “No offense, but I hope we never have to cross paths again.”

Vorstag gave him a nod in return, not wanting to let go of Gerhild in case she might change her mind and take off for Windhelm that very moment. After the door closed, he risked leaning back a little to try to catch her eye. “Get dressed. Lydia’s gonna be out for the rest of the night, so I’ll take you to Jorrvaskr before I leave. Gotta pick up Vilkas, anyway.”

“Take Farkas,” she suggested. Apparently she had resigned herself to staying behind. “He’s the stronger brother, a better fighter. I know Vilkas is smarter, but you’ve got smarts enough to deal with anything Norilar might try. Bring Farkas with you.”

He nodded, finally letting go of her to reach for his loincloth. He watched her out of the corner of his eye as they dressed, each of them silent, each of them—no doubt—plotting some sort of subterfuge. It didn’t matter, as he knew she was right; Vilkas was the smarter twin. And if he left her in Vilkas’ care, Vorstag was sure she wouldn’t be able to outsmart him and find a way to follow despite her promise.

“You don’t trust me.” It wasn’t so much a question as a statement. He resisted the urge to look guilty while she held his gaze, her deep blue eyes calm and warm. “I give you my word, Vorstag, I will stay here in Whiterun while you go look for Norilar. But don’t take too long,” she threatened, pulling her hair back into a simple braid. “Be back in time for the babe’s birth, or I’ll come after you.”

He nodded, more than willing to agree, so long as she didn’t follow him tonight. “Either Norilar is there and we’ll capture him,” he deliberately refused to swear an oath, “Or he’s gone and we’ll come straight back home. I won't try to track him down.”

“Good,” she accepted his statement with a kiss against his stubbled cheek.

Vorstag wished he didn’t feel like a heel for misleading her; if Norilar had already left and he could follow, he wouldn't rest until the hunt was over.

* * *

Fate or Stuhn or something still had a hand in his life, influencing events to leave Vorstag without blame, his lie to Gerhild meaningless. It took a couple of weeks of hard riding, but Vorstag and Farkas reached the cabin Aventus had described. It sat dormant and dark beside the river, and a slow feeling of frustration pounded with each of his heartbeats the closer they came.

“Looks deserted,” Farkas commented.

“Aye.”

“No smoke from the chimney.”

“Aye, I can see that, Farkas,” he ground out. They finished approaching the cabin on foot, leading their horses, but the door stood ajar. He didn’t have to look inside to know that Norilar was long gone. He did so anyway, why he couldn’t say, but what he found wasn’t a clue to where Norilar had taken himself.

“By the Nine,” Farkas swore, tall enough to see over his head. “Merciful Arkay, was that…?”

Vorstag reeled back from the door, unable to help himself, the impulse to retch too strong. Farkas followed his lead, taking several steps away before bending over and bracing his hands on his knees. He took in several deep breaths before he found his voice. “That’s not who you thought you’d find, is it?”

He didn’t need to answer, but he did, if only to help stave off the gorge rising in his throat. “Nope. That’s not him. Whoever that was, though, she didn’t deserve to end up like that…”

Apparently, after Aventus’ visit, Norilar had regrouped the unused parts for the Black Sacrament back with the rest of the body. Sort of. All the pieces seemed to be there, but they were set out very meticulously, separated and sorted by layer. The skin was lying deflated on the floor, one long seam running down the entire left side, around each and every finger and toe, the skin nearly whole with only a few missed patches or jagged edges. The flesh was set out like a separate body next to the skin, tendons dangling from the ends of muscles as if waiting to be reattached to a bone. The organs were placed like a third body, the intestines puddled and half-dried to resemble oversized worms, the eyeballs floating disconnected between the tongue and the brain. Finally the skeleton—and for some unknown reason the long blonde hair—was laid out as the final body, a few missed pieces of gore turned brown and stuck fast to various bones.

“Never met this Norilar,” Farkas commented, glancing back at the cracked door, “But seems to me he’s a sick bastard.”

Vorstag nodded, not trusting his voice. He intimately knew of Norilar’s skills, could easily imagine the girl had been alive while he had…

“We should give her a proper burial, at least.”

Vorstag struggled to shake off the cold fear gripping his heart. Norilar wasn’t here, was long gone in fact. And whatever suffering that girl had gone through was over. “Aye,” he agreed, hating the thought of seeing THAT again but knowing it was the right thing to do. “We’ll look around, too, see if we can find anything that might tell us who she was, clothing or a locket or something. If she had any family, they’d want to know that she’s gone.”

“Good idea,” Farkas nodded. He saw that Vorstag still hesitated going back into the cabin, so he suggested, “I’ll wrap the remains up in a spare blanket. You start on digging the grave.”

Vorstag looked at him, his face pale beneath a cold sweat, his hands shaky, “Farkas, I…”

“It’s alright,” he inclined his head, setting a heavy hand on his shoulder. “I understand.”

They stared at each other for a moment, and Vorstag realized that Farkas had suggested he dig the hole because he was having so much trouble looking at the corpse. He gave a short bark of laughter and managed a weak smile, amazed at the man's insight, and his own blindness. It was often said that Vilkas was the smarter twin, aye, but that didn't mean that Farkas was stupid. That would be the same as saying that since Farkas was the stronger twin, Vilkas was a ninety-pound weakling. "Thanks," he offered, more an apology for having underestimated Farkas than gratitude over not having to look at the corpse again.

Apparently Farkas understood everyone's underestimation of his intelligence, and it didn't bother him; perhaps he even played on it. "Don't mention it," he deadpanned before turning and heading into the cabin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, still not enough action, but next chapter, well…
> 
> Do you feel it?
> 
> Do you feel it coming?
> 
> ;D Oh, yeah, I do *rubs hands together with an evil gleam in my eye*


	5. Maeganna's Torment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you feel it? I feel it. Can anyone say: “Dragon!”

2nd of First Seed: 4E 206

It was late. Or early, depending on if you were a mug half-empty or half-full type of person. Vorstag preferred half-full. Sounded more hopeful. He yawned and rubbed at the corner of his eye, trying to figure out what woke him up.

It didn’t take long. Gerhild huffed and shifted in her semi-somnolent state, again knocking her elbow against his ribs. He resisted the urge to grunt, knowing she didn’t mean it, was probably more uncomfortable than he was, and even less aware of her actions. Carefully he gathered her up in his arms, rolling her onto her side, stuffing his pillow between her knees, and pressing up close behind her—more to share her pillow than any other reason. His warm hand spread over her swollen belly, gently stroking, trying to soothe the babe wriggling within.

Gerhild took a slow breath, a little cooing sigh escaping with the exhale. “Thank you, he always settles when you’re near.”

He hummed, pressing his lips into her hair. “Go to sleep.”

“Can’t,” she sighed again. “Not until he goes to sleep.”

Vorstag laughed, softly, his breath warm against her neck. “You still think it’s a boy.”

“Has to be,” she paused to yawn, “He’s such a handful. Too much trouble to be a girl.”

His smile deepened, “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I know at least one girl who’s quite a handful.” To prove his point, his hand strayed away from her belly to a more sensitive area.

“Vorstag!” her chastisement was weakened by her laughter, both of them knowing he was only teasing, as the size of her belly made it too awkward to engage in anything athletic. Still she gripped his wrist and moved him to a safer place. “Like I said; boys are more trouble.”

His laughter joined hers. He lifted himself onto an elbow and leaned over her, staring down at her profile in the dim light of a single candle. Her face was so expressive, with a little mysterious smile playing around her bow-shaped lips more often than not over these past few months. Though they had tried to keep her pregnancy a secret, eventually they couldn’t hide the physical changes. It wasn’t long after that winter set in, and work had to cease on their new home. Vorstag had made the decision for them to move there—even if it was a bare and open space inside, it was finished outside and the roof was sound. He would enjoy walling in the rooms and crafting the fixtures and furniture himself.

Now that spring was coming, they had decided not to rehire the laborers, to keep working on it themselves. It was their special project, building the home together a physical symbol of the life they were building together.

Besides, Ralof was over almost every day to help.

“He’s not settling down this morning, is he?”

She took a deep breath, as much as she could with her diaphragm half-squeezed from the babe, and opened her eyes. The deep blue orbs stared a moment at nothing before she turned her head towards him. “Guess not. Maybe he senses that storm coming.”

“There’s a… never mind,” he stopped himself from finishing the question with a little shake of his head. He should know by now that she had ways of knowing things, and to not question her. He kept his skepticism to himself, just in case she was right this time, and offered, “I could try rubbing your back.”

She hummed a little. “That would feel good.” Without any more encouragement, both his hands started stroking her spine, spreading outwards to her sides, seeking out those tiny knots and sore muscles. “I’m so tired, Vorstag,” she suddenly whined.

“Then try to sleep.”

“No, it’s…” she stuffed her fist into her mouth, catching herself before she yelled at him. After a few breathes, she tried again. “I mean, I’m tired of being pregnant. I want the baby born, already!”

He smiled, his shoulders shaking with his silent chuckles, and he was glad he was behind her back where she couldn’t see him. “Patience, my love, it’s almost time. Another couple of weeks…”

“Another couple of weeks, and he’ll grow too big,” she groused. “I want this part over with. No more backaches. No more stomach so large it looks like I’ve swallowed a goat. No more sleepless nights because the babe won’t settle. No more waddling because it feels like my stomach is hanging down between my legs. I want him out, where I can hold him, where I can… can… love him, and…”

His hands went to her shoulders, squeezing just enough to remind her that she wasn’t alone. “I’m here, Gerhild. I’m here with you every moment. And I’m not leaving. We’ll get through this. I know it’s taken a long time. I know it seems like you’re doing all the work.” She glanced over her shoulder, a slightly guilty expression on her face, wondering how he knew what she was thinking, and why he wasn’t mad at her for thinking it. He tweaked the end of her nose. “That’s because you are. It’s alright for you to feel this way. Don’t try to hold it back; you’ll only make it worse.”

“But it’s not fair for me to feel this way.”

“It’s a feeling,” he assured her, “An emotion, and you can’t help it. I understand. I’m not offended or hurt because you feel a certain way. I love you.” He kissed her cheek. “You love me.” His lips moved to her shoulder. “Those emotions matter, too, don’t they?”

She made a brave little smile. “Aye.”

“Good. You had me worried for a moment there…”

She saw the corner of his mouth twitch, and punched him—again—with her elbow. “Vorstag!”

He laughed with her, and the tension from a moment ago eased. “Why don’t I draw you a bath? The water will help lift some of the weight of the babe, and the warmth will ease the ache in your back. And, maybe, it might settle the babe enough for you to get a few more hours of sleep.”

“One can hope…” she sighed. She closed her eyes, and he noticed the bags beneath them, worry eating at his heart and creasing his brow now that she couldn’t see it. Later today, when it was a more decent hour, maybe he’d go and ask Gerdur to visit with Gerhild. The two women had known each other since Helgen, but were forming an even deeper bond over the pregnancy. Gerdur had also promised to deliver the babe, when it was time. He hoped the older woman had some magical advice to help his love through these last few weeks. Otherwise, he might not make it.

He got out of bed and grabbed a pair of leggings, not for modesty but for warmth. Spring may just be starting, but it was still cold this high in the mountains. He padded on bare feet over to the hearth, stoking the embers back to life and adding several smaller logs. He’d have to go outside to the well to get water, heat it by the fire, fill the copper tub…

It was going to be a lot of work, but when he glanced over at his wife, suffering from sleeplessness, their babe growing beneath her heart, he decided it wasn’t all that much work, comparatively speaking.

Outside the wind howled, a low and distant moan that sent shivers down his spine. Maybe Gerhild was right about that storm after all. He pulled a thick woolen tunic over his head before searching for his boots.

“Vorstag…” her voice was small in the firelight. He sat on the edge of the bed, mindful to leave her stomach enough room, and brushed her hair back from her face.

“Aye, my heart?”

“Something’s…” she stopped, unsure if she should say what she had intended, unsure if she knew what she meant. There was something… off… something different… restless… unsettling…

“Anything wrong?” his face grew concerned, his brow furrowing and his lips tugging down slightly in a frown. “Are you alright? The babe…?”

“No, not me, not the babe, I…” she trailed away, as unable to describe her feeling as before. Looking upwards she saw the expression on his face. Not wanting him to worry, she took his hand, trying to squeeze it reassuringly.

The wind sounded again, closer this time, and Vorstag thought he could hear the windows rattle a little beneath the force. She shuddered, or perhaps it was a shiver, the warmth from the fire not quite reaching the bed yet. He pulled out of her grasp to take an extra blanket from the trunk at the foot of the bed, and drape it over her shoulders. “Wind’s picking up. I should get the water for your bath, before that storm of yours sets in.”

She gave a knowing little laugh. “You didn’t believe me, did you.”

He grinned, that boyish, unrepentant grin she loved so much. “Doesn’t matter now, does it? Let me get the water; I’ll be right back.” Tenderly he kissed her cheek. Then he was gone.

She sighed and closed her eyes, content to lie there and listen to the wind howl. She could almost imagine it, the dark clouds boiling as they met the sides of the mountain, building higher, concentrating their essence. Another blast of Power, pure rage and vengeance, as they prepared to attack. The storm was circling overhead, homing in on her location, getting closer…

She heard it again, the howl, the challenge, and sat straight up in bed.

“Shit!”

Whether in response to her profanity, or the noise, or the abrupt movement, or her sudden upheaval of emotions, the babe beneath her heart shuddered with empathy.

“Vorstag!” she cried, but he was already outside, beyond the range of hearing, her voice drowned out by the coming storm. She threw aside the covers and scrambled to find a shift, pulling it over her swollen form as she raced for the main door. She paused long enough to shove her feet into an extra pair of Vorstag’s boots and grab a cloak hanging nearby, yanking open the portal as she clutched the fabric over her shoulders.

“Vorstag!”

He still didn’t hear her, but as he was already returning from the well, a bucket in each hand, he did see her. The wind whipped his long hair across his face as it whipped the sound from his ears, but he had seen enough to know something was wrong. He dropped the buckets and raced for the door, reaching it before she could manage to get all the way outside, still struggling with her cloak.

“What is it?!” he shouted over the sound of the howling. “Is… the babe… is it time?” He was already thinking ahead, of his race to get to Gerdur and bring her back here, of leaving Gerhild alone in the big empty house, of the coming storm and…

He selfishly felt relief when she shook her head in denial.

“Worse!” she shouted, her eyes lifting up again when the wind raged. Vorstag followed her gaze, and felt a strange blast of air, like a downdraft, fall over their heads, contrary to the current wind twisting and swirling the snow…

He shoved her back inside, slamming the door shut behind them. “Fuck!” He couldn’t keep the fear from his face, try as he might, as he looked to her and asked, “A dragon? Are you sure? Now?”

“Aye, my love,” she answered, her voice filled with dread. Truthfully, she had been amazed it had taken so long for a dragon to find her, to hunt her down and challenge her. Those other dragon souls within her stirred as the circling dragon Shouted its Thu’um, their restless unsettlement being what had kept her and the babe up half the night. They sensed it too, death approaching, though it remained to be seen whose death.

Vorstag pressed his thin lips into a thin line, staring at the wall as if he could see outside to the dragon. Her silent apprehension had given him time to think, time to formulate a plan. Now it was time to act. “Can you tell what type of dragon it is?”

“Not without seeing it,” she shook her head again, “Which would allow it to see me, too.”

He nodded, having suspected as much, but desiring confirmation. He grabbed his Dawnguard cuirass, which he kept with his other armor and weapons conveniently inside the entryway, and began shrugging into it. “Get into the cave.”

She didn’t move, staring at him while he strapped his sword at his waist. “What?”

“Get to the cave.” When it looked like she wouldn’t comply, he took hold of her arm and starting propelling her towards the back of the house, where it joined the mountainside.

“No…” she moaned, knowing what he was planning.

“Aye,” he affirmed, his voice hard and commanding for once, echoing through the cavernous house void of rooms and hallways. “Get into the cave. Barricade the door.” He picked up a gown as they passed their bed, the one she’d worn the day before. It was plain and woolen, so far different from the silks and velvets she loved to wear, but far more practical for the countryside.

“…Vorstag…”

He shoved the garment into her hands. “No arguments!” he nearly shouted, the fear and the apprehension shortening his temper. He sensed her reprimand even before she could take a breath. “Please, my heart,” he began again, and she could hear the emotions in his voice as he stopped and took hold of her shoulders. “I need to know you and the babe are safe. Get into the mountainside, where the dragon can’t touch you. Stay safe and sound. For your sake. For the babe’s sake. For my sake.”

“For your sake?” she repeated, bewildered, wringing the fabric in her hands.

“Aye, I won’t be able to focus on the dragon, if I’m constantly thinking of you, wondering if you’ll slip outside and try to Shout or fight the dragon.” His words broke off as suddenly as hers would while expressing those strongest emotions she found nearly impossible to control. She reached up to touch his stubbled cheek, making him lift those soft brown eyes up to hers.

“I worry about you, too, my love.” A tear slipped from her eye even as the house shook beneath another downdraft. “Please, come with me. Stay safe inside the mountain. With me. Let the dragon get frustrated and tire out from the storm and fly away…”

“You know that won’t happen.” He closed his eyes again, leaning down and pressing his forehead against hers.

She felt the truth of it in her heart. The dragon had come to kill. Or be killed.

“I can’t just leave it,” he continued. She hated him for it, hated those words she already knew, those thoughts she already had, before he shared them. “Even if we know it’s here for you, we’re too close to Riverwood. It could go there next, attack the village in an attempt to try to draw you out. I have to fight it. I have to keep its focus here, away from the others. Besides,” he pulled back just far enough to flash his cocky grin at her, “Someone in Riverwood must’ve heard it by now. No doubt there’s already a patrol on its way here, to fight the dragon. I’ll have help before you know it, and we’ll finish off the dragon before you’ll have a chance to worry.”

The babe gave another tremble, echoing the lack of confidence she felt, the same lack evident within his voice.

Before she could answer, he began walking her quickly to the back of the house, stepping over lines where he had been planning walls, walking around the large workbench where he had been fashioning a few sconces out of goat horns. She allowed it, simply because this was all happening too fast, too dangerous, too fearful…

They reached the door that covered what had once been a bear cave. It was solid and thick, a massive barrier that she normally had trouble moving. He hefted on the latch with one hand, the other still on her arm as if afraid she would back down and escape to try to fight the dragon. She saw the portal opening wide, like a mouth yawning, making her feel like a fly about to be swallowed.

“…Vorstag…” Her feet stumbled in their oversized coverings, trying to slow her progression, fighting against his urging.

“Inside, Gerhild. Please, don’t argue. There isn’t time…”

“Husband!” her voice cut over his like an ebony war axe. She managed to free her arm and turned to face him fully, her face set, her violet eyes dark and bottomless. “Stay alive. I mean it,” she continued when he opened his mouth to retort. “Don’t let yourself get killed. Or I swear I will follow you to Sovngarde and kick your ass.”

He smiled, a tender gesture, and cupped her cheek. “No you wouldn’t. You’d stay here, stay alive, and raise our son. You’d make sure he knows about me. And then, in the fullness of time, when we meet in Sovngarde, we’d know each other.”

He kissed her, as savage in passion as it was in brevity. All too soon he was pulling away, fading from her sight, the door closing slowly and shutting her in darkness.

She stood frozen, unable to move, unable to think, only willing to door to open for Vorstag to appear to say it was all a mistake it had only been the wind there was no dragon…

The babe shivered.

She felt it, the trembling deep within her that was not her, like those dragon souls. Only this other soul would not remain buried within her own person. This other soul would soon be born, be his own person, live his own life. And she had to see to it he had the chance to do so.

She had to remain safe.

Gerhild turned from the door, casting a flame spell towards where she thought there was a lantern sitting on a table. She missed, having turned too far, but luckily the flames put themselves out against the wall. Luckily also she had been able to see exactly where the lantern sat, and was able to light it on her second try. She walked over to it, the gentle flame highlighting the tears across her cheeks. Numbly she shrugged into her gown, popping her head through the neck, pushing her arms through the sleeves, draping it over her belly. Then she sat on one of the chairs and waited.

She had endured torture before at the hands of the Thalmor. She had been stripped and beaten and raped. She had been imprisoned and forced to mine silver, again raped and forced to prostitute herself, forced to serve a mad king. She had faced dragons and draugr, entered Hermaeus Mora’s plane of Oblivion—several times—and returned, defeated vampires and ash spawn and all manners of creatures. She had survived fires and avalanches and bottomless pits, poisonings and broken backs and cracked skulls.

None of it—not one single iota of all that pain and suffering and torment—could compare to the ordeal she faced now.

“Stuhn,” she prayed softly into the darkness, “Stuhn, God of Ransom, Apologist of Man, is this how she felt? Is this what Maeganna couldn’t endure?”

She remembered the story her father, Ulgaarth, had told of her mother. Maeganna Battle-Maiden, as fierce in beauty as she was in battle, lover of Ulfric and soon-to-be-mother of Ulfric’s child. Ulgaarth had been escorting her to safety when they’d been discovered by Imperial Soldiers, who had orders to arrest her. Ulgaarth had forced Maeganna to hide in a trunk, made her promise not to come out, while he fought off their attackers. Yet she couldn’t remain in hiding, not while there was a fight going on, not with the heat of bloodlust boiling through her veins. She had emerged from the chest, helped finish off the last of the soldiers, and in doing so been injured enough to lose the babe.

Gerhild’s older half-sibling.

A child who never had the chance at life.

Outside the dragon roared, the Thu’um in its voice so powerful it shook the very foundation of the mountain. The trembling continued as it landed and roared again, but she was too far removed to understand its words.

“Stuhn,” she begged, pleaded, her thoughts in such a deep turmoil she couldn't form coherent words other than, “Shield him. Please. Be his Shield.”

The dragon raged, interrupting her prayer.

“It’s not right!” she shouted almost in an answer to its challenge, her voice threatening to fill with her Thu’um. “I am Dovahkiin! I am the Hunter of Dragonkind. I am the one who has come to destroy Alduin!” Invigorated from a sudden influx of adrenaline, she jumped from her chair and raced towards the door. Just as she reached it the babe moved again, kicking her so hard it felt like he left a bruise. She cried out, feeling her fear like a physical pain, and wrapped her arms around herself, around her babe. He moved again as if in answer, sharing her fear, reminding her why she was there, why she couldn’t go outside.

She sobbed, doubling over, landing on her knees, tears falling down her cheeks to land like raindrops on her skirts. “I am Dovahkiin.” Her voice was weaker, not from lack of physical or mental strength, but from acceptance. “And I am your mother. I will not let a dragon harm you, I swear this to you, on my life,” she hiccoughed before finishing, “On your father’s life. You will have a chance to live.”

Her eyes clouded with moisture, she pushed herself to her feet and stumbled blindly for the table and chairs.

“By the Nine,” she gasped, still overwhelmed with painful fear, “How can I endure this? I must. I will. But how…?” She collapsed to her knees again, her hands clinging to the edge of the table, her face pressed against her sleeve. “Stuhn, please, help him. Save him or I cannot endure this. I implore you. Help Vorstag. Help us. Please…” her voice trailed away into incoherent mumbles, her thoughts degrading into need, into instinct, into want.

There was another roar, not from the attacking dragon, however. This other roar came from further away, giving her pause. She opened her eyes and whispered, “A second dragon?”

She strained her ears, dread lending her superhuman ability. For several minutes she couldn’t move, could barely dare to breathe, please, Stuhn, no, not even Vorstag’s luck was that bad…

The roar sounded again, and her heart nearly stopped. It was another dragon, another challenge, but… not directed at her. This second dragon… was challenging the first dragon.

“Paarthurnax…?” she whispered, with barely the breath to slip past her lips. By Talos, she thought, please, let it be him. It was possible. The ancient dragon had never dared to leave the Throat of the World as far as she knew, but he knew she had made her home nearby. He knew she was married and would soon become a mother. Could he have come to help protect her? Her knuckles turned white as she listened to the Thu’ums of two dragons, felt the ground shake and threaten to break beneath their combined weight. A few times, one or both dragons sounded confused, angry, hurt.

Then it happened.

There was a loud crash, loose dirt and rocks falling all around her. She could feel the sound as much as the vibrations from something hitting the ground nearby. There was a tearing scream empowered with a Thu’um that slowly faded as the dragon desperately clung to life. But she could tell, the inevitable would happen, the dragon would die, and it was not Paarthurnax’s voice that Shouted its last.

She was panting, as if she had been fighting the dragon this whole time, as if she had landed the killing blow. She remained crouched on the dirt floor, playing the scenario out in her mind, the dragon breathing its last, the body thrashing its final death throes, the scales fading and crumbling to be consumed by fire, the wind—its soul—tearing out of the corpse, slipping past the empty bones, rushing towards…

She gasped, the soul emerging from the wall as if there wasn’t solid stone between her and the dragon, to twist and swirl and permeate her skin.

She never got used to that feeling. Always craving more, as the more souls she consumed, the stronger she became, but that initial taste, as the soul passed within her, became a part of her though separate, as it found and joined those other souls…

She wanted to vomit.

Distantly a dragon roared, Paarthurnax, acknowledging the kill, acknowledging her lordship. She could almost picture him, dull skin and tattered wings, yet still powerful and commanding, thrusting himself into the air and taking flight.

By the Nine, what she would have given to have seen that… No, she felt the babe trembling beneath her hand, she wouldn’t have given just anything. Neither Vorstag nor their unborn child. She had made the right decision, staying inside where it was safe. Now it was over. The babe was safe. She was safe. And Vorstag…

She lifted her face towards the door, expectant, hopeful, willing it to open. She wanted to see his soft brown eyes and boyish grin, to hear his lilting voice boast of his prowess, to feel his strong arms envelop her and their babe.

The door remained shut.

Her lips moved, forming his name without breath, summoning him, but he would not appear.

Beyond the door it had grown quiet, far too quiet without the din of the battle. Yet she should have heard something—someone—moving around outside. She went back to the door, her steps lurching, unbalanced. It took her three tries to grab the latch and pull it out of the way. Then she fell against the heavy wooden barrier, pushed with all her might, tried to force it open. But it wouldn’t budge.

“Vorstag!” she shouted, beating her fists against the door, breaking the skin across her knuckles, bruising the flesh of her hands. “VORSTAAAAAAAGGGHHH!!!!”

There was no answer, not that she could have heard above her frantic pounding. It took until she had broken a finger before she could calm herself and step back, absently casting a healing spell while she studied the doorway. Something was wrong, something was very wrong. The door should have moved. Aye, it was heavy and she often struggled with it, but she could move it. That it could remain so passive beneath her assault was inconceivable. Yet there it sat, as solid as the mountain around it.

She considered options. She could try pulling instead of pushing, even though she knew the door opened into the house and not into the cave. More realistically she could try Shouting. She was the Last Dragonborn, after all. Yet this did not seem like an option. She remembered one time, while traveling with Vorstag, she had used her Thu’um to burst open a chest. Her Shout had rebounded off the wall, shattering the chest, aye, but also sending her flying through the air and knocking the wind out of her. She simply couldn’t take the risk of something similar happening again, something that might injure the babe.

There was another Shout, one that made her ethereal, allowing her to pass unharmed through walls or weapons or enemies… But she didn't know if that would work, if the Shout would also make the babe ethereal. The Shout did make her armor ethereal, so perhaps it worked on those things already touching her. And she had learned secret knowledge that kept her Shouts from harming her allies, like her husband or her babe. Would that mean her Shout wouldn't harm the babe, keeping it within her while she passed through the door, or would it let the babe slip away…?

“Stuhn’s Shield,” she cursed, unable to think clearly, “I cannot take that chance!”

She had to stay positive. Vorstag was out there. So was Ralof and others from Riverwood. Someone knew there had been a dragon here, knew she was inside this cave, knew she needed help to get out. Everything would be alright.

The babe shook again, and she put a hand beneath her belly, as if already holding him. “It will be alright,” she spoke to her son—their son. “Your father will be here soon. We’ll be together and everything will be alright. Just wait a little longer…”

There was a strange sound, somewhere between the rumble of thunder and the tearing of a tree branch. She felt the trembling through the packed earth beneath her feet, and saw the door shudder.

“Hello!” she called.

“…gerhild…”

The answer was muted, barely heard, but it wasn’t imagined. With a sob of relief she called out again, all her hopes and prayers in one name. “Vorstag!”

She heard a voice answer, the words unintelligible. She wanted to ask him to repeat himself, to shout louder, to ask if he was Vorstag or someone else, to ask where was Vorstag.

But something told her the other voice wouldn’t hear her. She grunted in frustration, clutching the babe tighter, and forced herself to be patient.

“…Gerhild, can you hear me…?”

“Aye!” she shouted, tears clinging to her lashes. “I hear you! I hear you!”

“…rubble… the door… back!”

“What?” she nearly screamed at the top of her lungs. Damn, but this was frustrating!

She could barely hear the answer over the pounding of her heart. The words were shouted slowly, almost syllable by agonizing syllable. “There’s rubble! In front of door! Stand back!”

Half of her was relieved: there was someone out there working to free her, and there was a perfectly good explanation why she couldn’t open the door earlier. Yet the other half of her groaned in frustration: if the door was blocked, it could take the rest of the night to clear it enough to open the door. If only she could Shout, she’d have the rubble blasted out of her way in a few moments.

But she couldn’t take the chance that the Shout would ricochet and hit her. She couldn’t do anything that might endanger the babe. She groaned and staggered towards the back of the cave, waiting.

Waiting.

Every so often there was the sound of earth and stone shifting, of someone cursing, of groans lifted in common purpose. Then more and more often she could hear the sound of the wind, constant and cold, buffeting the shouts and cries. Next came a steady thud, like a heartbeat, something heavy and solid hammering repeatedly at her prison. It took her awhile to figure out it was the sound of axes chopping.

Stuhn’s Shield, did part of the house fall against the door, she wondered. It might have happened, in that final moment, when the dragon died. She remembered how the ground trembled, how quiet it got afterwards, the sounds of the storm vanishing until only Paarthurnax’s Thu’um could penetrate the layers of earth and stone, and even that was faint.

That must be it, she reasoned. With her situation defined, with the unknown explained, she sat and tried to breathe slowly, her hands on her stomach. It wouldn’t be much longer. They were working hard to free her, several of them, villagers from Riverwood undoubtedly, a few guards as well. Another loud crack sounded, and a cheer rose up; they must have removed a large obstacle. She didn’t stand, didn’t waste energy, only sat and watched the door and willed it to open…

More shouts. More groans. More curses.

Then a miracle. The door opened a crack, a bitingly cold wind rushing in, and a few fingers. She sobbed with relief, but her knees felt too weak to allow her to stand.

“Gerhild?” It was Ralof’s blond braids that entered her prison, that passed through the gate to her cell. “You alright?”

“Where’s Vorstag?” she demanded, dismissing his care and concern.

“He’s, ah, he’s not far. Let me get the door open… a little… further…” He grunted between his words, wedging his body between the door and the mountainside, shoving with both hands and even a foot.

She didn’t look at him, pushing herself to her feet, bracing her own back against the wall. “Where?” she repeated. When Ralof didn’t answer right away, she lifted her cold, hard violet eyes to him and demanded, “Where is Vorstag?”

Ralof let out the breath he was holding, knowing she’d have to be told sooner or later. His arms fell to his sides, his head dropped, forehead banging into the massive door. “I, ah, he’s already in Riverwood.”

It was quiet—too fucking quiet. Even the sound of the snowstorm seemed muted, like it was trying to penetrate through the blocked door again. She stepped away from the wall, amazed to find herself able to keep her feet. Shouldn’t she be fainting or something? Shouldn’t she feel cold? The wind was whipping into the cave, she could see it tear at Ralof’s cloak, fling his braids away from his cheeks. The wind found her own cloak and tugged, as if trying to keep her within the cave…

“Take me to him.”

“Gerhild…”

“Take me to Vorstag.”

“No, I can’t. We’ve been fighting all morning to unblock this door, the storm’s here now, we’ll never make it. We have to stay here, in the cave, until it blows over…”

“I. Need. Vorstag.”

He knew that voice. It was the Dragonborn of old, the one who had raced through Skyrim like wildfire, Imperials and Thalmor fleeing before the face of her wrath. The one who had stopped at nothing, even becoming her enemy, to defeat the vampire threat. This was the Dragonborn who didn’t have Vorstag in her life… He lifted his quiet blue eyes to hers and nodded. “Aye, you do. Everyone!” he turned his face to shout at whoever was outside. “We’re returning to Riverwood. Grab that rope there. Everyone tie it around yourselves. Everyone! I’m not gonna lose a single damn soul to this storm.”

Gerhild pulled the edges of her cloak tighter over her shoulders as she approached the door. She knew it was foolish, trying to make one’s way through a blizzard, the wind whipping the snow up like a curtain, obscuring everything more than three feet away. But she needed Vorstag. Aye, she was risking the lives of everyone here, people who had already risked their lives to free her from the cave.

But she needed Vorstag.

Thankfully Ralof understood her; she didn’t think she could find the words to explain it.

Fitting through the opening was problematic. Her stomach made it so she couldn’t squeeze through sideways, but her shoulders and hips wouldn’t fit any other way. It took Ralof and two others prying the door wider, until she was able to twist her way through.

Standing outside in the snowstorm, breathing hard after the exertion, she took a moment to lean on Ralof and ask, “What happened?” The area was gray, the sunlight high above the clouds unable to penetrate very far. The roof was gone over this part of the house, as was the wall, most of it lying against the mountainside. She couldn’t even make out the hearth in the center of their house, if it was still standing, thanks to the weather blowing through. “The dragon?”

“Aye,” he sighed, the sound lost behind the wind. He nodded to reinforce his answer while he tied a loop in the rope. He looked at her nonexistent waist before shrugging, passing the loop over her shoulders and trying to settle it somewhere between her breasts and her abdomen. “The one that died. A second dragon got away.”

“Don’t worry about that one,” she shouted, “He’s a friend.”

Ralof gave her a look that belied his disbelief, but didn’t comment. He tied the end of the rope around his own waist and signaled for the others to start moving out.

“This is suicide,” one of them shouted.

“We’ll make it,” Ralof reassured them. “Keep the mountain on your left. Stay together. Hold onto the rope. We’ll make Riverwood together, you’ll see.” He held on to Gerhild as they started off, like a strange vision of bodies and limbs tied together with string, fading in and out of the white.

“Oh, this is ridiculous,” she moaned. She stopped for a moment, straightened her shoulders, took as deep a breath as she could manage, and Shouted, _“Lok Vah Koor!”_

“Shit! Gerhild!” Ralof scolded her, staring at her with shock and outrage. The storm was pushed back, not entirely, but enough for them to see farther than a few feet, enough for her to clearly make out his disapproving expression. And the shock on everyone else’s faces.

“It’s not like everyone in Riverwood didn’t already know,” she retorted weakly.

“Aye, but…” he bit off his words until something civil came to mind.

“A dragon just destroyed half my home. Pretty clear, if it wasn’t before, that I’m the Dragonborn.”

He had to try to get in the last word. “There’s such a thing as plausible deniability. We could have, well, the others could have said they never heard you Shout, never saw you absorb a dragon soul, so how could they have known you were the Dragonborn. Now…”

“Now they know. Big deal,” she panted, “It was already the worst… kept secret… in Windhelm…” Damn, but Shouting just once had taken more strength from her than it should.

Ralof saw the expression on her face and had to ask, “Are you alright? Were you hurt?”

She shook her head. “Just… Shouting took… a lot… out of me…”

He looked like he wanted to believe her, but couldn’t make himself. He did drop the subject, though he stayed right beside her just in case.

Gerhild was grateful for his acceptance, albeit surly, as she could keep her focus on reaching Riverwood. She wanted to save her breath for walking, but as soon as they got outside what remained of the house, her heart filled with dread. Scorch marks were everywhere, some places still so hot that the snow had yet to reclaim them. There were even places where it looked like…

“Why is Vorstag in Riverwood?”

Ralof tried to pretend he hadn’t heard her, but with the storm pushed back, he didn’t have an excuse. She slipped one hand out from beneath her cloak, snaked up over the rope and grabbed his wrist in a steel grip. “Why did he leave me?”

“He didn’t have a choice,” Ralof moaned, his voice barely reaching her ears even though he was only a foot away. “He was… Gerhild, don’t worry about him. He was hurt…”

“Burned?”

He nodded. He felt her stumble, but with his hands around her he kept her upright. “Walk slowly. No sense taking the chance of falling and hurting yourself.”

“Is he…”

“Listen,” he gave her a little shake, frustrated with her stubbornness. “I don’t know how bad he’s hurt, alright? We got here just as the second dragon showed up. Vorstag was already burned, but still able to fight. Things got a little chaotic, what with two dragons, a blizzard, and all that fire. Found him afterwards, he was saying you were in the cave, had to get you out. I promised to free you myself. Only way I could get him to go to Riverwood with the other injured.”

She stumbled again, and he looked down at her feet to see them flopping around in boots far too large for her. “By the Nine. No wonder…” His words weren’t loud enough for her to hear, but his actions spoke volumes. He stopped them for just a moment, swept one arm beneath her knees and scooped her up. He stifled the groan; he was after all carrying two people after having spent half the night fighting two dragons and the whole morning digging through rubble—all during a blizzard. But he’d be damned before he let another hair on her head get harmed because she was trying to walk over uneven ground in Vorstag’s boots.

She protested, but he stoically ignored her. He marched slowly with the others, one foot after another, always moving forward, mountain on their left. Around the time they reached the trees, Gerhild suddenly bit off her protest midstream, deciding instead to imitate his stoic example. One hand looped over his shoulders, a handful of his cloak bunched in a death grip. The other hand lay protectively over her stomach, often stroking it. He wasn’t sure if she was trying to soothe the babe or herself, but as long as she kept still and calm, it truly didn’t matter.

The storm returned, but after a questioning look from Ralof, Gerhild shook her head, panting too much to try to Shout. Time lost meaning. So did direction, the trees all looking the same, passing in and out of sight within the white. Only the mountain remained constant, their only stable reference, taking them further and further from one shelter in a vain hope of finding another shelter. Gerhild’s grip on his shoulder periodically tightened, almost hard enough to make him wince, but she remained quiet otherwise, her face tucked beneath his to try to find some relief from the wind. Now and then he’d say something encouraging, telling her they were almost there, they would make it, Vorstag would be fine, just a few more steps…

“I see it!” the one in front yelled at long last, causing the others to stagger forwards those few feet more to see for themselves. Even Gerhild lifted her head to look, to strain her eyes, to peer through the white and see the guard’s walkway arching overhead. No one was there, but that didn’t matter; one would have to be crazy to be out in this weather. She groaned and stuffed her face back underneath his chin, her hand gripping his cloak even tighter.

“We made it!” he told her. “We made it!”

She didn’t have the breath to answer.

They staggered beneath the walkway, down the lane, and up the steps of the Sleeping Giant Inn. The door was barricaded, but after several pounding knocks, they managed to get someone’s attention to open the door. Quickly they all filed inside, as eager to feel the warmth from the central hearth as those inside were keen on keeping the cold outside.

Looking around, Gerhild’s heart nearly stopped. There were a lot of wounded, laid out on the floor, only some on blankets. The tables and benches had been pushed out of the way, set on their sides to make enough room. She stared at them all, unable even to register the gagging stench of burned flesh, but her eyes did not find Vorstag. She couldn’t, not beneath the bandages and burns and blackened clothing. There were too many wounded, because of the dragon, because of her, because they chose to live nearby.

“Don’t blame yourself,” Ralof scolded her, as if reading her thoughts. “The dragon did this, not you.”

“Put me down.” Her voice was barely a breath, but it held the weight of command. He did as he was bid, easing her back onto her feet, one arm remaining around her shoulders. She looked pale, unsteady, her hair frazzled with sweat frozen at her temples. Yet she spread her hands and…

Gold light. That was the only way he could describe it. An explosion of gold light burst from her hands, filling the room, saturating every body. Even he felt it, that wonderful coolness that only came from a healing spell, but it was more sudden, greater in size than anything he had ever seen her do. So when she swayed afterwards, he was there and ready to pick her up again.

“What in Oblivion…?” Gerdur mumbled, leaning back from a wounded man she had been tending. She hadn’t looked up when the door opened, more concerned with helping her patients than seeing what stupid idiot was out in the middle of a blizzard. She looked now. Seeing her brother there was no surprise, but she thought Gerhild had more sense.

“Vorstag…?”

Gerdur immediately reached her feet. “He’s alright, now, I’m sure,” she tried to reassure the younger woman. “Over by the counter.” She put her hands on Gerhild’s face and asked cryptically, “How long?”

Gerhild shook her head as best she could within the woman’s grasp. She wanted Ralof to set her down. She wanted Vorstag to hold her. She didn’t want to be asked questions she couldn’t answer. “I… I don’t… know… hours…? I think… before the dragon attacked…”

“Gerhild!” his voice called, and she nearly fainted. Vorstag was standing up, trying to brush away someone’s help while keeping his balance. His cuirass was gone, as was his tunic, one blackened strip dangling from the waist of his leggings giving silent witness to how badly burned he had been but a moment ago. He was whole now, however, whole and healed and coming towards her, his strength renewing with each step, his soft brown eyes creased with worry. He took her numb hands in his, rubbing warmth into them. “You shouldn’t have done this. You should have waited out the storm where you had shelter.”

She smiled weakly, “That wasn’t an option…”

He made to take her from Ralof’s arms, but the other man would have none of it. “You’re still recovering.”

“Then you carry her,” Gerdur commanded, taking charge. “Orgnar, we’re gonna need one of the rooms. Plenty of hot water. Some swaddling…”

“What?” Vorstag asked. “It’s alright, now. She’s healed everybody.”

“Take Delphine’s old room. I’ll get the others out,” Orgnar stated calmly, as if he understood what was happening, already at the bedchamber door and ushering the previously injured into the main room.

“This way,” Gerdur pushed Ralof’s shoulder, urging him forward.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Vorstag persisted, keeping hold of Gerhild’s hands while Ralof briskly made his way across the tavern. It made walking a bit awkward, but he was not going to let go.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Gerdur reassured him, motioning her brother towards the bed. She spoke to Ralof next, “Set her down, gently. Then you’d best make yourself scarce. You, too,” she rounded on Vorstag.

“No!” It was hard to know who spoke first, Gerhild or Vorstag, but they were equally adamant. Ralof was already wisely backing towards the door, but still curious enough to want to know what was going on.

“Gerdur, I need him.”

She almost didn’t get the words out. Her breath hitched, her face screwed up in pain, her hands gripping his until they threatened to break his fingers. A short infinity later, she relaxed and started breathing again. Everything would be alright, she told herself, Vorstag was here now and everything would be fine.

“Shit,” he breathed before he could catch himself, understanding smacking him like a war hammer. He squared his shoulders and held Gerdur’s gaze calmly. “How can I help?”

She took a deep breath. It was usually easier without the father hanging around, getting in the way, getting emotional, but it seemed Gerhild needed him. “First, keep your head. She needs you calm and steady right now, understood.”

He nodded soberly.

“Second… Ralof! Get out of here and close that door! Second, keep her breathing. She’s gonna wanna stop when she pushes…”

Ralof closed the door firmly, needing no second urging.

* * *

Again time lost meaning. Everyone stayed within the main room of the tavern, some few managing to scrounge an interest in food, most simply sitting on whatever scrap of furniture or floor they could find, mugs in their hands, staring into the murky brown depths of the ale. By unspoken agreement, no one commented on the sounds coming from the bedchamber, the cries that echoed supernaturally, the thumps and shatters as various items of furniture landed against the walls. No one wanted to leave, either, even if by some miracle the storm suddenly abated they would remain, as eager as the parents no doubt were to welcome the new babe into the world.

Ralof winced after a particularly long howl of rage and determination. Next came an ecstatic cry from Vorstag, something mumbled from Gerdur, and another long groan. Then silence.

Everyone held their breath, ears straining for the next sound, willing the cries to start.

They weren’t disappointed. A new voice sounded, wailing with frustration and dissatisfaction, and no doubt a bit of cold. An answering cheer rose up from those in the main room, which Ralof quickly hushed back down into silence. After a few moments, the babe’s cries settled and Gerdur and Vorstag could be heard conversing. Then the door opened.

Vorstag stood there, a bundle made from strips of cloth looking small in his large hands, his face beaming and his chest puffed out. Reluctantly he dragged his eyes away from the babe’s face to see everyone staring at him. His smile widened, if that were at all possible, and he proclaimed: “We have a son, Hamming.”

The cheer sounded again, and from within the bedchamber Gerdur looked at Gerhild and rolled her eyes. “Told you he’d act like he did all the work.”

"Let him enjoy it a moment longer," Gerhild smiled, feeling indulgent. "He did handle the part with the dragon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! The story on this site is finally caught up with the other site! I know, I know, this means I'll have twice the readers bugging me for updates. I better get back to writing. *sigh*
> 
> Also, and I'm probably jinxing myself here, but this was one of my most anticipated chapters to write. I've been dreaming about Gerhild's emotional struggles, writing and rewriting it in my head, for months. It's actually kinda depressing, now that it's finished, but I'm feeling confident that I did a good job. Hope you enjoyed it, too!


	6. Changes in Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, you again thought I’d abandoned this fic. I have not! I won’t! *crosses arms, stamps foot, pouts* Yes, I got distracted with Dragon Age, but I’m trying now to focus most of my energies on this story, because it’s been going on for so long, and is so long, and we’re getting close to the end *sniff* But I’m such a perfectionist and haven’t been satisfied with my writing lately, and I don’t want to put out writing unless I do my best, and, and, and… D”:  
> Can you tell I’ve been battling a “wee” bout of depression?  
> Anyway, I do try to keep my profile updated, with what’s happening, why something’s been delayed (writer’s block or whatever), when you can expect a new chapter, etc.

Vorstag stood, feet braced shoulder width apart, hands on hips, lips set in a thin line, brown eyes deep and murky. In the full light of day and with clear skies overhead, the desolation at the back end of their house seemed even more out of place. Boulders strewn like pebbles, supporting timbers snapped like matchsticks, roofing tiles shattered like glass. The fresh snow, swirled by the gentle breeze, encroached through the gaping hole in the wall, leaving long pillowy drifts reaching inside like fingers, as if the wilderness sought to reclaim the home he had tried to build.

Tried, and failed.

“It could have been worse.” The words were spoken gently, from behind and above him, floating through the air like the fresh layer of snow.

“Aye,” he sighed, one finger rubbing at his tired eyes. He looked at the rubble piled in front of the cave door, at what Ralof and the others had to dig through during a blizzard in order to free Gerhild. If they hadn’t reached her, if she had been trapped inside, alone, in labor… He pushed the thought away, too terrible to contemplate. “It could have been a lot worse.”

The horse snuffled, shivered a bit for the cold, then returned to standing placidly, wary of keeping its rider safe and secure in the saddle. Gerhild leaned forward a little, over the top of Hamming who was sleeping in a sling beneath her cloak, and patted the horse’s neck. It worried her, seeing Vorstag this upset. He wasn’t angry or raging—the easygoing Nord rarely if ever lost his temper. Stubborn, aye, or determined, pouty on occasion, controlled and deadly strength when warranted, but he was never violently angry.

Yet this morning he was upset, a rare occurrence. He seemed… defeated, like he had given his best effort during a fight but had lost. Like when they were trapped at the bottom of the ebony mine. Like he acted after Northwatch Keep. She couldn’t let him return to that black despair, not now, not when they had so much to be thankful for—their lives, their love, their son. “Most of the house is still standing,” she continued, hoping her voice sounded as cheerful as she intended, “And the tower. And the foundation is strong. It shouldn’t be too hard to rebuild the back of the house.”

“Probably just in time for another dragon,” he muttered. Though he faced away from her, though the breeze carried his words even further away, she still heard him. She watched him rub at his shoulder, and wondered if he was remembering the burn he’d taken during the fight with the dragon. She hadn't seen the injury, but she knew it had been severe, mostly because he didn’t talk about it, but also because it had ruined his armor. He was healed now, however, as were the others, all their wounds knitted together without scars—except for the emotional ones.

“We can take a few days,” she pressed on, deciding it would be best to ignore his melancholy and focus on doing something constructive, “Clear away the dragon bones and scales, the scorch marks, anything obvious like that, and it will look like the blizzard caused a landslide that took out part of the house. Spring is coming soon; we can ask Ralof to rebuild this for us. He can hire more workers, supplies, oversee the rebuilding…” She paused to give a little stutter of a laugh. “We should hire him as our steward, with all the work that’ll be going on.”

“Should we?” he asked, loud enough that she knew he wanted to be heard this time. “I finally understand, you and dragons. I didn’t before. I kept thinking, the damned things would stay away from you after what you did to those other dragons during the Civli War. But they won’t, will they? They’ll keep tracking you, keep challenging you, more and more of them, stronger each time. And hiding inside a mountain isn’t the answer. I thought it would help, having a safe hole to hide in, but it only got you trapped.” His voice made half a choke, and she had to strain to hear the rest of his words. “What’s the use—making a home for ourselves, putting down roots among friends and starting a family—when all it does is pinpoint your location, keep you tethered like a scapegoat?”

“I need a home, Vorstag,” she answered, her voice now threatening to break, “I need this. You. Hamming. Our friends in Riverwood. A house where I can return to, a place that keeps me anchored, a home to guide me back from the chaos that is my fate.” As always, she felt that pull, that driving force, demanding that she fulfill the prophecy and face the World-Eater. It had grown easier to resist that drive, to keep it from sweeping her off her feet and away from those she loved. She wrapped an arm around her chest to try to comfort herself, and came across the warm bundle against her heart. She dropped her eyes to focus inside her cloak. There lay Hamming, secure in his sling, tight against her bosom, his face relaxed in a contented sleep, unconcerned over the weather or dragons or the future. Focusing on his tiny form, so strongly dependent upon her, she could force the pull of her fate into the background. For now.

She felt a large, warm hand on her thigh, and looked away from her son’s face to find Vorstag staring at Hamming, too. His face was a little less troubled, a bit of fatherly pride creeping in, pushing away the despair, and making room for a little hope to enter after it. “I need this,” she repeated, growing stronger in the presence of those she loved. “I need you. I love you. Both of you. And I love that you’ve made a home for me, for us.” She laid her own warm hand over his. “Don’t throw it away. Don’t give up. We can make this work. Besides, once I defeat Alduin, the dragons will leave me—us alone. They’ll have no choice.”

“No choice, huh?” He raised his sad brown eyes up to hers.

“No choice,” she affirmed. “Alduin is their leader, their _Thuri_. Once I defeat Alduin, I will prove myself stronger than any other. I will become _Thuri_. And the dragons will have to obey my will, or suffer the consequences.”

It was a bluff, a show of bravado—her last tussle with Alduin hadn’t ended well. The only reason he hadn’t killed her was because she had been already dead, or undead rather. But it was the sort of nonchalant confidence that Vorstag normally showed just before a fistfight or some other minor contest.

He stared at her for half a heartbeat longer, before giving a choked sort of chortle. “Stuhn’s Shield, don’t you think you’re getting ahead of yourself? You have to defeat Alduin first. You don’t even know how to do that, yet.”

“Yet,” she agreed, lifting her chin, “But I’m working on it. Which reminds me; we need to do a little traveling.”

“Traveling?”

“Aye, now that the babe’s here, I can travel a bit more comfortably.”

He closed his eyes, briefly, a slightly pained expression on his face. “You want to travel with a newborn?”

“And you, of course,” she continued. “You get into too much trouble, if I leave you to your own devices for any length of time. Nope, this will work out. We’ll officially hire Ralof as our steward.” She turned her horse, Vorstag falling into step beside her. Though she felt perfectly fine and back to her former strength after giving birth a few days before, he had insisted she ride rather than walk when they went to survey the damage to their home. She thought it silly, but indulged him; there were other matters that were more important than pouting over having to ride a horse. “He can handle matters here while we’re away; shouldn’t be too hard for the workers to repair the wall and replace the roof. And maybe,” she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, “Maybe they could put in the floor for the second story this time. I know, you want to finish the house yourself, but it’s too large and open the way it is now, too hard to keep warm during the winter months.”

He took a deep breath, but nodded. “I suppose I did bite off a bit more than I could chew. Fine, the workers can put in the second floor and build the rooms out, but I’m leaving plans for where I want the rooms to be. And, maybe…” now it was his turn to glance at her, “Some running water.”

“Running water?” she asked, markedly looking past him at the river running nearby. When she looked back at him, she could almost see the gears turning in his head.

“Aye. Been thinking about it, off and on, for a while now. I didn’t make any plans for it before, because, well, I didn’t think of it back then. But now that we’ve lived here for a bit, and, well, after having to go outside for fresh water and then heating it, or using it cold,” he paused to shiver. “I could design a system of pipes that would bring the water into the house, straight from the river, no buckets or lumbering outside in the cold. There’d be fresh water for baths or cleaning or cooking. There’d be pipes to drain the used water away, too. Could even come up with a way to heat it…”

He continued on, babbling and planning, the ideas flashing quickly through his mind. If there was one thing—other than herself—that Vorstag was passionate about, it was Dwemer technology, and these plans of his sounded a lot like that, with all the pipes and heating and valves he kept mentioning. Gerhild smiled, disaster averted, his melancholy evaded, now that he was focused on something he loved and enjoyed rather than the destruction caused by the dragon. She wanted to fondly ruffle his hair, but decided that might be going too far.

“Why are you smiling like that?” he asked, breaking off to throw her a suspicious look.

She leaned down and planted a kiss on his forehead. “Because I love you. Let’s get back to Riverwood. I’ve got plans to make, too.”

“Right. Traveling with an infant,” he rolled his eyes, “Forgot about that. Where exactly are you thinking of traveling to?”

“High Hrothgar.”

He stared at her blankly. She supposed it did sound ridiculous, wanting to climb the highest mountain in all of Nirn, a suckling newborn at her breast, but it wasn’t like she would be fighting dragons along the way. “I want to speak with Paarthurnax. He should have an idea by now how to find the source of Alduin’s power. Besides, I want to thank him, for saving your life.”

Vorstag grudgingly huffed. “Suppose it’s only right. Though, ah,” he nervously licked at his lips, “I won’t have to go up there, to the very top, I mean. I’ll go as far as High Hrothgar. Hamming and I can wait with the Greybeards while you go on ahead and thank Paarthurnax for me. For us.”

“You don’t like him?” she teased.

“He’s a dragon,” he said, very slowly and very succinctly. “Something you could’ve warned me about, ya know.”

“No, I couldn’t have,” she shook her head. “I took an oath not to reveal that information, to anyone, including my husband. But since he revealed it himself…” she shrugged. Then another thought occurred to her. “Um, Vorstag, you’re not going to tell anyone else, are you?”

“No,” he gave a small laugh, “Who’d believe it, that the leader of the Greybeards is an ancient dragon? A good dragon.” He scratched at his tattooed cheek. “Not sure I believe it, and I saw him.” He stopped her, just shy of the walkway that marked the town limits of Riverwood. A guard was all the way at the end, looking out over the river and the winding road leading to Whiterun. “That trip won’t take but a week or so, not enough time for the workers to finish. You wanna head to Whiterun after?”

“Probably,” she sighed. “We can’t stay around here, in case we get recognized by one of the workers.” She saw his face darken again, only a small amount, before it was quickly wiped away. She wasn’t about to let that despair return, and moved quickly to head it off. “Vorstag, what is it?”

“First we go to High Hrothgar,” he said, slowly, as if giving it voice would make it fact, “To find out how to defeat Alduin. Then we go to Whiterun where your new armor is waiting. It just sounds like… things are coming to an end.” He looked back up at her, his soft brown eyes deep and seemingly empty. “I don’t want this to end. Us. You, me, and Hamming. Our life here is good. Why do you have to rush and finish this? Can’t you take some time, enjoy what we have, before…” He had to look away, unwilling to voice his doubt, his fears, his anxieties.

She couldn’t answer, not verbally, not right away, a tight lump choking her throat. She knew what he was feeling, the wish—the longing—that this wouldn’t end, that their lives could go on as this, forever, untouched by time or change. But time will pass. And things do change. And they had to face it, they would face it, together.

“I have to do this,” she spoke softly. “It’s my fate. It’s unavoidable. But there’s nothing that says I have to face my fate alone. I’ll have you with me, by my side, protecting my back, like always.”

“I can’t, though,” he sighed. “I’ve no armor, and even if I did, it wouldn’t be strong enough to face a dragon like Alduin. Had enough trouble with my Dawnguard armor and that last dragon. And we already know Alduin can damage even ebony armor. So what good would I be?” He looked back up at her, “If I go with you, I’ll only be a liability, something to distract you, to keep you from focusing on Alduin. I have to let you go alone. Again.”

She knew how he felt, being left behind. She had left him behind when she faced Miraak. And she had been left behind when he fought the dragon the other day. Deciding it was better to reassure him than surprise him, she let go of her little secret. “Oh, fine! I was saving this until we got to Whiterun, but I can’t stand it when you pout. Since I had so many dragon bones and scales, and Eorlund had so much extra time to work on it, I asked him to make a second kit, armor and sword and shield, for you.”

His head jerked up to look at her. “A second kit? For me? Of dragon bone?”

“Aye,” she huffed, “I wanted to surprise you, like you surprised me with our new home, and Eorlund was up to the challenge, making a full kit for you without having taken your measurements…”

Her words ended in a small squeal as he lifted her off her horse and into his arms. He remembered in time that Hamming was between them, so he didn’t press her as close to his chest as he wanted, but he did spin her around a few times. The horse, slightly miffed over the display, shuffled aside a few feet before placidly waiting for her owners to take up her reins.

“I was afraid,” he whispered, slowing down to set her lightly on her feet, “I was afraid, that if you went alone, you’d never… you wouldn’t…” Again superstition kept him from uttering those fateful words. “And you were the one with the armor, not me. But if I have armor, if I can go with you, I can make sure you’re alright. I can make sure you make it back.” He kissed her hair.

Tears almost filled her eyes. Gerhild realized at that moment, how essential Vorstag was to her, to her sanity, to her tender heart, to her very life. She reached up and kissed his lips, one hand holding his tattooed cheek. When she pulled back, she locked her gaze with his, deepest blue holding softest brown. “It’s a tall order, keeping me alive and whole. There’s no one else who could handle it.”

He laughed at that, a little, but enough. “Aye, no one else is crazy enough.”

“I was thinking… ‘stubborn,’” she countered, picking up the reins of her horse.

Vorstag took the reins from her hands, leading the horse back into Riverwood. “How about ‘a glutton for punishment?’”

She pouted, not was well as he could, but she was trying to be funny. “Punishment? What sort of punishment do I put you through?”

“You wanna start at the beginning? Let’s see, there was the Briarheart camp on the way to finding Jarl Igmund’s father’s shield…”

* * *

Astrid’s eyes narrowed. “Let me get this straight,” she spoke slowly, unable to keep the frustration out of her voice. The youngest, most promising recruit into the Dark Brotherhood in years stood before her—defiantly, damn him. SHE had found the boy, not yet fourteen years of age and capable of cold blooded murder. SHE had given him a home, food, armor, taught him skills, started him on a brilliant career. SHE had done everything for him, and yet it was the Night Mother whom he loved, who held his loyalty.

Damn them both.

“We have a legitimate contract that we are going to ignore? Someone invoked the Black Sacrament. You met with that someone, listened to the contract, and left. Your silence would infer that we, the Dark Brotherhood, accepted the contract. Don’t you think this person, whoever he or she is, would be expecting us to fulfill this contract?”

Aventus was tired, and more than a little sick with worry. They were standing in Astrid’s office, thankfully with the door closed, as he really didn’t want anyone else hearing this conversation. It was bad enough he had to go and listen to the insane man; the memory of that cabin—the smell!—still turned his stomach. He had been thankful the Night Mother said they would refuse the contract, though he had felt compelled to warn Gerhild, just in case the Altmer tried to kill her another way. But coming back to the Sanctuary to find Astrid on a rampage, already knowing about the refused contract, put him off balance.

“I was told by the Night Mother to listen to the contract and then leave. She specifically told me not to speak a single word,” Aventus answered carefully. The Night Mother was close, in some corner within his mind, listening to what was being said, but it didn’t feel like she was going to interfere. He supposed that was just as well; he had never been sure that Astrid believed he was the Listener—or even that the Night Mother was more than a corpse rotting in a coffin.

“And on your way home, you decide to stop off and warn the target of this contract?” Astrid decided to take a chance and let him know she knew of his actions, to try to shake him up some more in the hopes that he would let something important slip. She scored a point, seeing the stricken look on Aventus’ face. The young man was too tired, too preoccupied to school his features; she could read him like a book. “That’s the second time you’ve warned the intended victim…”

“Lady Nilsine wasn’t the target,” he argued, growing angry, hurt, and feeling the need to defend himself. “Aye, she was mentioned in the contract, but as a bonus, not the main target. It was up to my discretion whether or not to kill her, too.”

“And you didn’t,” Astrid bored into him. “You let extra coin slip from your fingers—our fingers! Coin we could have used. In case you haven’t noticed, the Brotherhood isn’t doing so well here in Skyrim.”

“We’re doing well enough, now,” he protested.

“Not so well that we can ignore a contract, just because you feel a false sense of kinship towards a lady who saved you from despair one night.”

“How do you…?” he stared at her, his jaw dropping as the words faded.

Astrid leaned back, crossing her arms and smiling coldly at him. Oh, the boy was still brash with his youthfulness, still overconfident in his skills. She had easily trailed him to Windhelm, curious as to whom the Night Mother had sent him to see. When he left in such an upset state and so quickly, she decided to follow him to Whiterun rather than peek inside the cabin. She knew whose home he had entered; Aventus had told her about the young Nord woman who inspired him to take matters into his own hands—and subsequently gaining him the attention of the Dark Brotherhood. Astrid knew he had feelings for the Nord woman, not love certainly, but a fondness or liking. And she knew that he had left that house without bloodying his blade. Yet she wouldn’t tell him how she knew; she’d let him stew for a bit, thinking she had some supernatural powers. Perhaps that would put her on equal footing with the Night Mother. At least, she figured it couldn’t hurt. “I know.”

Aventus was tired, hurt, confused. Astrid, his leader, stood before him, calmly discussing the death of someone important, not just a friend of his, but someone whose death could end the whole world. It was madness, insanity, and he had to make her see reason. “Then I can’t see why you would want to do this,” he pleaded. “Killing the Dragonborn? It would be suicide. Alduin is still out there, resurrecting dragons, threatening all of Nirn…”

Astrid heard the first part of his statement, but not the rest, not after that revelation. She had known he had gone to the home of Gerhild North-Wind, the woman who inspired him to become an assassin, but she hadn’t known Gerhild was… The Dragonborn. Fuck! she thought to herself. Outwardly she was stoic, unassailable by his words. Inwardly her mind was in chaos. Someone wanted the Dragonborn dead?

Oh, her blood sang to her, that would be glorious. No one would dare question the Dark Brotherhood’s strength and reach, not if they could kill the Dragonborn. There had been rumors that someone wanted a contract put on the Emperor, but this? This would be even better. And Aventus had an easy way in; apparently the woman trusted him. If she could convince Aventus to fulfill the contract…

No, she mentally shook her head, he would never agree to kill someone he felt was a friend. But in armor close to his, someone else might be mistaken for him, someone else with a similar build, who could slip inside, allow the Dragonborn to think it was Aventus, get close and…

“The Night Mother said it was forbidden!”

The last part of his statement was said so vehemently that it penetrated her thoughts, scattering her dreams like shadows before the sunrise. Astrid’s eyes narrowed, her attention returning to the young man before her and his love for his ‘mother.’ The Night Mother. It always came back to her. Cicero had doomed them all the day he arrived with that petrified corpse! “Did she say why it was forbidden?”

Aventus nodded, swallowing and looking nervous. “I… I don’t know if I’m supposed to discuss this…”

“Please, Aventus, it would help me to accept her decision, if I understood her reasons,” she countered, softening her voice, making herself sound reasonable. It was obvious to her that he wanted to talk, to a real person, not just a voice inside his head. She uncrossed her arms, even held a hand out to him as she spoke. Perhaps, if she catered to Aventus’ delusion that the corpse talked to him, she could gain back a little of his trust, even find out for herself who had offered the contract on the Dragonborn/Gerhild North-Wind. Astrid was roughly the same build as him. She could slip into similar armor, imitate his gait and movements, kill Gerhild, report back to the client… Ah, the infamy and glory that would be hers! Theirs! The Dark Brotherhood!

Aventus hesitated, but didn’t think it really mattered if she knew there was an old god protecting Gerhild, warning off those who might interfere with her destiny. He sighed and scratched at the back of his head, wondering where to start. “Well, um, you know who Stuhn is, right? The old god we call Stendarr now? Well, Lady Gerhild, as the Dragonborn, has claimed him for her god…”

* * *

The day was bright and clear, not a cloud in the azure sky, the yellow sun beating back the chill and melting the last of the snowbanks clinging to the ditches. Gerhild stood beside Vorstag, their shoulders touching, a smile on her face so bright it rivaled the sun.

“Oh, let me look at the little prince,” cooed Fralia, coming out from behind her stall to look at the babe in Vorstag’s arms.

“He’s not a prince,” Gerhild denied, though the sparkle in her deep blue eyes spoke otherwise.

She was promptly ignored. Fralia leaned in when Vorstag pulled the blanket back from Hamming’s face, her gnarled and wrinkled knuckle gently stroking the babe’s cheek. Hamming immediately turned towards her, opened his mouth and his eyes, and blinked at her. “I had heard the babe was early,” she continued. “I was concerned—we all were—as early babies can have, well, difficulties. But he seems fine. In fact, he’s quite big and strong for being almost a month old.”

“Takes after his father,” Gerhild deadpanned. It was said with such conviction that Fralia took her seriously, though Vorstag was hard pressed to keep a straight face. They knew coming here so soon after Hamming’s birth might raise questions concerning the timing of his birth, but they weren’t able to stay in Riverwood, not while their house was being rebuilt. “Big, healthy, hardly ever fusses…”

“His eyes are still dark,” Fralia hummed, then glanced up at his parents. “Well, I suppose both of you have dark eyes, blue and brown. It’ll be interesting to see what his settle down into. Oh, just listen to me. Here I am, wasting your time, talking about silly matters you’ve probably had to listen to fifty times already. And no doubt you’re on your way to see my husband, Eorlund, about your armor. I shouldn’t keep you.”

“It’s always a pleasure to talk with you, Fralia,” Gerhild denied. Actually, it was Vorstag who was eager to see the dragon-inspired armor, and elongating his anticipation was simply too tempting.

Fralia smiled and gave her a hug. “You’re too kind. Are you staying here for a while? In Whiterun?”

“At least for the summer,” Vorstag answered confidently. She didn’t counter him, but a troubled sort of wrinkle appeared between her brows.

“Then there’ll be plenty of time for me to see him again. What was his name? Oh, that’s right, Hamming. Such a handsome name for a handsome little boy.” She petted the downy, light brown hair that fuzzed his head. Hamming blinked at her again, waved a tiny fist in the direction of her hand, but otherwise remained quiet and peaceful. She tsk’ed her tongue, “There I go again. Off with you; you’re distracting me.”

Vorstag laughed, Hamming bouncing in his arms, and his soft brown eyes glowed with warmth when he spoke. “We don’t mind, Fralia, but aye, I do wanna see that new armor. We’ll stop by later.”

“See that you do,” she agreed. She watched them turn away and head up the stairs towards the Gildergreen before she stepped back behind her stall. “Such a lovely little family,” she sighed to herself.

Neither of them heard her, their faces and their thoughts racing ahead of their deliberately measured pace, ahead and up all the way to the Skyforge. Eorlund was already at work, the sound of his hammer like the toll of a bell, greeting a new day full of promise and hope. They turned the corner, climbed another set of stairs towards Jorrvaskr, but Gerhild didn’t go inside as per her usual habit. There would be time to visit with Vilkas later; right now she wanted to see her and Vorstag’s new armor.

As they reached the top platform where the forge sat, Gerhild gave a small shake of her head. Vilkas was up there, speaking with Eorlund while the smith worked. So much for trying to sneak past the Harbinger. Vilkas was talking to Eorlund’s shoulder, his voice low enough that the words didn’t carry, not until they got close. “…something ceremonial.”

“I won’t do it,” Eorlund groused, finally giving up trying to ignore Vilkas and turning to face him fully. “You want armor, I’ll make armor. You want a blade, I’ll make a blade. I don’t make toys for… Lady Gerhild! Lord Vorstag!”

“Good morning, Eorlund,” she answered, “Vilkas. Sorry, we didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Not at all,” Vilkas took a step back, a slightly guilty expression on his face. “We were, ah, just… discussing… something…” For once in his life, he felt like his ice-brained twin. Then again, though Farkas didn’t seem to understand everything that went on around him, he always had something relevant to say. At that moment, Vilkas wouldn’t have been able to form a coherent sentence if his life depended on it.

“That must be Hamming,” Eorlund stood, gesturing to the babe in Vorstag’s arms.

“Aye,” the father beamed, willingly showing off the boy. “Three weeks old, and already he’s tried to lift Gerhild’s war axe.”

She rolled her eyes. “You make it sound like he tried to take a practice swing or something. I was carrying Hamming in his sling across my front, while cleaning the blade of my war axe. His hand reached out and touched the leather wrist strap.”

All three men were beaming at her now, though it was Vilkas who finally found his voice. “Aye, sounds like he’s off to a good start. Already knows which end to hold.” The three laughed at that, more with pride than with humor.

“Men,” she sighed.

“Three weeks old, you say?” Vilkas continued. “Let’s test his strength.” He took the glove off of one hand and held his finger out in front of Hamming. The babe quickly seized it within a chubby fist, almost able to wrap his hand around the whole of Vilkas’ finger. Vilkas gave an affected grunt of pain before smiling. “Good grip. Quick reflexes. Aye, he’ll be a fine warrior one day.”

Gerhild couldn’t suppress the long-suffering sigh.

“Suppose you’re here for your armor?” Eorlund eyed Vorstag and Vilkas as they stepped aside, still making up mock tests, as if they could determine the babe’s skills by measuring his hands or listening to the strength of his cries.

“Aye, and Vorstag’s.” She turned away from the two to find Eorlund staring at her stoically. “Oh, he knows. He was pouting the other day, and I had to cheer him up, so I told him about it. I know, it was supposed to be a surprise, but I can’t stand to see him upset.”

Eorlund hummed knowingly, “You women are all the same. Soft-hearted.”

She scoffed at that, inwardly where he couldn’t see—if only he knew half the things she was capable of, had done already…

“Still, since you’re both here, you can both try them on, see how they fit, if I need to make adjustments, and the like.”

“Do you have the armor here?” Vorstag spoke up eagerly, leaving his conversation with Vilkas to glance around. The Skyforge was empty of dragon scales or bones, however, armor or otherwise.

“Back home,” he answered. “Why don’t you three head down to Jorrvaskr; you usually like to visit with the Harbinger for a bit, anyway. Vilkas, send Farkas to my house, help me carry the damn things back here. I’ll warn you now, lass, they’re strong suits, but heavy. I tried to make yours lighter, used more scales than bones, but it’s still quite a bit of weight to carry.”

She made a small grimace. “Can’t be helped, I suppose. Alright, Eorlund, I’ll take the boys inside and send Farkas to help you.”

“That’s a good lass,” he patted her shoulder. It was so close to what Ogmund used to say, that she had to suppress a shudder. She couldn't help looking at Vorstag, who had heard it too, but Vilkas was quickly distracting him again.

“So,” Vilkas began as they all walked down the stairs, “You staying in Whiterun for long?”

“For the summer,” Vorstag said firmly.

Again, Gerhild’s face looked slightly troubled. She was in front of Vorstag, where he couldn’t see, but Vilkas—holding the door for both of them—had a clear view. He wisely decided not to press the issue, at least not yet, and followed them inside. “Farkas!” he called for his brother. The larger twin was standing off to the side next to a cupboard, a sweet roll in his hand.

Farkas looked up from his sweet snack at the sound of his name. Upon seeing Gerhild and Vorstag, he nearly forgot about the roll as he answered, “Shield-sister!” He wolfed down the roll in one bite as he approached them in three gigantic strides. One arm wrapped around her, lifting her off her feet and spinning her around, while he licked the stickiness off of his other hand. “Good to see you,” he added, smacking her cheek with a slightly tacky kiss.

After setting her down, he turned to see her husband standing there. “Vorstag. Glad you’re here, too.” He extended his freshly-licked, meaty paw, intending to give him a handshake, before he saw that Vorstag’s arms were full. “Oh, that must be your baby. Er, what was his name again?”

“Hamming,” Vilkas told him. “And don’t touch him; you’ll get the frost from that sweet roll all over him.”

“Ah, I’ll be careful,” he wiped his hand off on the side of his shirt while ducking down to peer at the tiny face. Hamming blinked at him in a serious manner, before one chubby fist reached out towards his stubbled chin.

“Later, Farkas,” Gerhild gently told him. “Right now, Eorlund wants you to help him carry some armor from his house. Could you do that?”

“Oh, ah, sure,” he shrugged. “But can I get to hold him after that?”

“Of course,” she promised. Seeing the big softie’s face light up brought an answering smile to her face. She patted Farkas’ arm, giving him a little bit of a shove to get him moving.

“Oh, let me see the little darling,” Tilma cooed, hobbling up to them. The next several moments were lost beneath a barrage of noises as more and more of the Companions gathered around. There were silly voices, little sighs and more cooing, and lots of advice from all corners. Gerhild stood and weathered the attention, an eye on Hamming as he was passed from one set of eager arms to another. Vorstag was more nervous, hovering over every person who wanted to hold Hamming, making sure they supported his head, didn’t hold too tight, didn’t hold too loose. After a few moments, Gerhild was able to drift a little away from the center, and caught her breath next to Aela.

“You don’t want to hold him,” she started, “Or are you waiting until the fuss dies down?”

Aela shrugged. “Just not interested. No offense, he’s, ah, cute, I suppose, for a baby, but…” she shrugged again.

Gerhild smiled. “Aye, I know how you feel. Or I used to feel that way. I never wanted children,” her gaze followed Vorstag as she spoke. “I never wanted to be married, truthfully. But it happened, on both counts.”

“A little fast, wasn’t it?”

Gerhild looked at Aela, a little shocked over the disapproving tone in her voice. “Fast?”

“Well, ya know,” she gestured vaguely, “You went from getting married to having a baby, all within the first year. Just thought, well, with everything that goes on in your life, you might’ve wanted to slow down, wait until things settle, before rushing off and having babies.”

“Wait until…” she repeated, her eyebrow twitching like it wanted to rise up in surprise.

Aela sighed, leaned in close, and whispered, “I know you’re the Dragonborn.”

“Shit…” Gerhild sighed, before it was her turn to shrug. “Well, it’s not like we’re trying to keep it secret any longer.”

“So then why the baby?” Aela pressed. “You still have to face Alduin, don’t you? Can’t do that with a babe at your tit…”

“It’s not like I’ll be taking Hamming with me!” she answered in a heated undertone. Seeing she had shocked Aela in return, she calmed herself and answered coherently, “No, Hamming wasn’t planned for, but I don’t begrudge the fact that he’s here. Actually, I’m thankful for him. For them both. Aye, it’s a bit inconvenient, with the babe relying on me so heavily, but it won’t always be so. And now,” she turned back to look at him, lying contentedly in Ria’s arms while Athis made silly faces at him, “Now I have something, something to fight for, something to live for, something to come back for. I didn’t have that before, and I think I was weaker for it. Now I’m stronger, I’ll be able to do more, because Vorstag and Hamming both need me to.” She looked back at Aela, easily seeing by her furrowed brow that the Huntress still didn’t understand. “Before, I would’ve have given my life to defeat Alduin—I still would—but now I want to LIVE. Now, I want to come back afterwards. Now, I have a home and a family to come back to. Now, I won’t take stupid risks or reckless chances—I’ll fight wiser—because I have them. The way they’ve changed my life has given me a better chance to defeat Alduin.”

Aela shook her head. “I don’t get it, but I suppose, if it works for you, that’s what matters.” She crossed her arms as Ria walked towards them with the babe. “I still don’t wanna hold him. No offense.”

Gerhild smiled, “None taken.”

“My Thane?” Lydia’s voice was unexpected, coming from the suddenly open double doors. Everyone turned to look at her standing framed within the doorway, the daylight silhouetting her features just enough to make her expression unreadable. Her overly dramatic entrance took attention off of Hamming, but he didn’t mind, having a good grip on one of Ria’s braids.

“Lydia?” Gerhild spoke, cautiously, her intuition screaming at her that something was wrong. She glanced to see that Vorstag and Hamming were both there, safe, secure, before she turned her attention back to her housecarl. She missed Aela’s smug look.

“Excuse me, miss,” another voice called from behind Lydia. She didn’t move, and the man—a courier—had to push his way around her to get inside. “Your pardon. Ah, I have a letter here for the Harbinger?”

“That’s me,” Vilkas stepped forward, taking the parchment from him.

“And the young lady there,” he thumbed over his shoulder at the statue-like Lydia, “Said that I could find Lord Vorstag and Lady Gerhild nearby.”

“I’m Vorstag,” he lifted his hand, “Don’t know about the ‘Lord’ part.”

“It’s honorary,” Gerhild answered, dragging her eyes from Lydia to look at the letter as it passed into his hands. “You became a lord soon as you married me.”

“Well, the rest are up at the castle, I suppose. Good day to you.” The courier knuckled his forehead and returned to the door. Lydia was still there, and he paused a moment to contemplate how to get around her.

Gerhild was no longer paying any attention, either to her housecarl or the courier, her eyes locked on the folded piece of expensive parchment in Vorstag’s hands. The writing on the outside was singular, familiar, and sent chilly fingers up and down her spine. She glanced at the one Vilkas held, but the handwriting was different, more stylized and grand, rather than the bold and heavy hand of their letter. She swallowed as Vorstag turned it over to break the seal and open it.

_“Nilsine heard about your marriage and asked to hold a banquet in your honor. It will be here at the Palace of the Kings on the 15th of Second Seed. Both of us are looking forward to seeing the two of you again.”_

And it was simply signed, _“Ulfric.”_

“That’s… not so bad…” hummed Vorstag, knowing how Gerhild would feel about it and trying to think of something positive to say, “Plenty of time to plan how to get there.”

“You should read mine,” Vilkas’ gruff voice grew even deeper.

Vorstag took it from him, struggling a little with the flowery script. Gerhild had less trouble reading, though more trouble comprehending. “Oh!” Vorstag said after he finished, suddenly understanding why Lydia was acting so strangely. “You got one, too, didn’t you?”

Gerhild still couldn’t make sense of the words. For the umpteenth time she read, _“…High King of Skyrim… cordially invites… banquet… to celebrate the marriage between Lord Vorstag of Markarth and Lady Gerhild North-Wind of Skyrim…”_

“Aye,” Lydia answered, her voice cracking.

_“…The Dragonborn…”_

“I think I understand now,” Vilkas added. “You never figured it out, did you? I thought you had, but, ya know, you just never said anything about it, because you were her housecarl.”

“Said anything about what?” Farkas asked. “Excuse me, Lydia, but could you step aside? This is kinda heavy.” She finally moved, allowing Farkas and Eorlund to enter, each of them carrying sacks brimming with armor and weapons. Vorstag let out an appreciative exclamation, passing the invitation back to Vilkas so he could get a good look at the new armor.

_“…Lady Gerhild… The Dragonborn…”_

“Gerhild?” Vorstag asked, having grown concerned when she remained silent and unmoving.

“Shit,” she snapped out of her trance. Instead of moving to see the armor, however, she remained standing and staring at Vilkas’ formal invitation.

“Language,” Vorstag chided, “Don’t swear in front of the baby.”

“He can’t understand me, yet,” she brushed it aside with a flick of her fingers. “Trust Ulfric to make a mess of it. How many of these things do you think were sent out?”

“Enough,” Vilkas answered. She turned towards him, her eyes flashing into violet, but he disregarded her anger. “You did say you didn’t care anymore who knew.”

“Knew what?” Farkas repeated.

“You honestly never figured it out?” Aela scoffed at Lydia.

“I… no… she was… I thought… the banquet on her wedding day… was because she was Thane, not The Dragonborn.”

“Dragonborn?!” several voices choraled the title. A cacophony of questions and exclamations rose up around them, but Gerhild remained unmoved by it. She sighed, a little sound, taking Hamming out of Ria’s arms before she dropped him. She then approached the others gathered around the sacks of new armor, while the whelps continued to chatter and gossip.

“Not the way I wanted the news to get out,” she mused, distracted by her son who was beginning to get fussy. She put a finger near his mouth to try to placate him, at least for a little while.

“Does it really matter, my love?” Vorstag asked, his voice tender.

She smiled a little and shook her head, looking up from Hamming. “No, not really, I suppose. I mean, the news was spreading, half the Stormcloak army knew it, and others were putting the pieces together for themselves…” She shrugged, “But there were some people I wanted to tell myself.”

“I second that!” Lydia snarked.


	7. Still the Coldest City in Skyrim

Gerhild rode within the midst of a large force, Jarl Balgruuf’s entourage, retainers, guards, manservants, cooks, and whomever else he decided he needed to take with him to make him feel more than a political puppet. Vorstag rode beside her, Hamming around his chest taking a nap. Ahead of the party ranged the twins, Vilkas and Farkas, far more comfortable with the work of scouts than with riding trapped within the rest of the force, as Gerhild. She envied them, the room to let their horses sprint, the wind unladen with the scent of other bodies, the miles passing with beautiful scenery rather than the backs of at least a score of soldiers.

Lydia was out there, too, somewhere, probably sulking towards the back of the column. Aye, she supposed the housecarl had good reason to be upset—one could argue that she had known Lydia for almost as long as she had been in Skyrim, yet Gerhild had never told her she was Dragonborn. Lydia had grown silent, morose, definitely not her normal bossy, nosey self. Gerhild sighed and set that problem aside for another day; there were more pressing issues to occupy her time.

Such as Vignar Gray-Mane. The new Steward of Whiterun rode on her other side, opposite Vorstag, his droopy mustache mimicking the frown beneath. “You’re insane!”

Gerhild could almost feel Vorstag bristling at the outburst and prayed he wouldn’t interfere—part of the reason she asked him to carry Hamming for a while. He would be less likely to start a fight with a babe in his arms. Instead she quite calmly and cooly replied, “It’s what Dragonsreach was built for…”

“You want to battle a dragon within the city?!” he broke over her words. “I can’t imagine the carnage! The death! The gore! How many lives will be lost, do you think?”

“Less than if I give up and allow Alduin to destroy the world,” she countered. Feeling her temper grow spiteful, she took a calming breath before speaking again. “The risk is minimal, Steward Vignar,” she used his title, thinking to intimidate him, to remind him just who it had been who had given him that title. “I have a Shout to call a particular dragon, another Shout that will make him land and face me and no other, and yet another Shout to bend his will to mine. The greatest danger is to Vorstag and myself, or anyone foolish enough to get between us and the dragon.”

“I cannot allow it,” he stubbornly shook his head. “You’ll have to find another way to capture this pet dragon of yours.”

“Oh, he’s not a pet, be assured of that,” she allowed, her eyes turning into deep violet pools of ice. “Also be assured that I will use the Great Porch at Dragonsreach to capture him. Speaking to you beforehand was only a formality, a chance to allow you some small part in the history books.”

“Why you… insolent… bitch!”

Vorstag’s horse bumped into hers, but she reacted quickly. Gerhild’s hand on the pommel of his sword—made of dragons’ bones—kept him from drawing it or doing anything else foolish. She didn’t look at him, didn’t want to see his cheeks flush with anger or his thin lips press even thinner. Instead she kept Vignar’s gaze, held him trapped within her icy violet depths, and spoke slowly and overly calmly. “I have given you the chance, Vignar. Now I will speak with Ulfric.”

“You…” he fumed, knowing he should calm down but finding himself unable to do so. Even while keeping eye contact with her, he could see Vorstag hovering protectively behind her, ready to defend her. But the nerve of her, dropping the High King’s name like it was something common. “You’ll go over my head?”

“You’ve left me no choice,” she shrugged. “We’re almost to Windhelm, Steward Vignar,” again she stressed the title. “Make up your mind quickly.” She clicked her tongue, flicked the reins, and urged her horse ahead a little ways.

Vorstag paused a moment, only long enough to catch Vignar’s eye, before he followed her. He reached her side, shifted Hamming in his sling, and leaned over to quietly say, “Don’t you think that was a bit heavy-handed?”

“Perhaps,” she hummed. “Could you pass Hamming back to me? Thank you.”

Vorstag almost chuckled as he lifted the sling from his shoulders. “So that’s why you had me carrying him? So I wouldn’t do anything rash like try to defend your honor?”

Gerhild felt a light heat steal across her cheeks. Stuhn’s Shield but he could still make her blush. “Aye, well, I was fairly sure he wouldn’t want to give me permission. And having known him from his days with the Companions, I figured the language might get a little… rough.” She accepted the sling, made sure Hamming was fast asleep, and tied the sling beneath her cape. “I knew what I was doing, pushing him, purposefully too far. After all, I am going to use his castle to capture a dragon; if he was going to balk, I wanted it to happen beforehand.”

“And you never trust me to follow your lead.”

“I… well, no… it’s not that… I didn’t have time to tell you…”

He set his hand over hers where she was wringing the reins on her lap. “Gerhild, my love, you should know by now that I know you better than you know yourself. Aye, I knew you were pushing him, didn’t know why, but I saw what you were doing. Figured, as your husband, I should make some sort of posturing when someone insults my wife.”

The pink on her cheeks grew just a little bit rosier.

“Still didn’t like him calling you a bitch.”

“Aye, well, it’s just a word. That’s all he has to fight with, words. And I can beat him there, as well.”

“You sure the High King will agree to this?” he asked, sounding troubled.

“Ulfric knows,” she affirmed, “He understands, better than most, what is at stake. He’s studied with the Greybeards, he knows of Alduin, of the Fate that’s in store for me. He’ll give me his support. He knows he’ll have to, or there will be no Skyrim for him to be High King over.”

Vorstag took a deep breath. “So it’s settled then. When we get back to Whiterun, we capture this dragon and make him take us to Alduin.”

She looked up at him, and caught the last bit of a troubled expression before he could wipe it away. “You nervous?”

“Of course not,” he denied. “It’s just… everything is happening so fast…”

“I know,” she bit her lip, feeling that pull of Fate trying to drag her away again. She became the one hard pressed to keep the troubled expression off of her own face, and tried to turn away to keep it from him. Vorstag’s large hand on her back, however, gave her the strength to let him see her fears, her worries, her weaknesses. “I’m tired, Vorstag. I’m tired of being Dragonborn. I’m tired of dragons. I’m tired of the doom before me. I want it over with! The sooner, the better. Maybe I’m rushing things; maybe that driving mania is returning—that’s why I’m taking you with me. Keep me on an even keel, my love. Don’t let me get carried away, lost within everything that’s happening…”

“I won’t,” he brought his horse close enough to hers that he could put his arm around her. “We won’t. Hamming and I. Look at him, my love. Our son.”

She dropped her chin, looking down at the peacefully sleeping babe, snug and warm within her cape and close to her heart.

“We are here, both of us, a part of you, and you a part of us. So you can never be swept away from us, because we are always with you.”

“If I should ever lose you two…”

“Never happen,” he said confidently, refusing to allow her to finish the thought. “We’ll always be a family. Forever and always…”

“…You are my heart,” she finished the inscription etched on the insides of their wedding bands. Gerhild took a shaky breath, the cool air filling her lungs.

“Better?” he asked, studying her profile.

“Aye… no…” They were rounding the last bend in the road before Windhelm, and the sight made the air freeze in her chest. “Stuhn’s Shield,” she breathed, “Did they invite half of Skyrim?”

Vorstag had to slow his horse to a standstill to keep from leaving her side. He looked out over the sea of tents, campfires, makeshift corrals crammed with livestock, and a never-ceasing flow of bodies moving through it all like blood in a body’s veins. “Suppose, if every Jarl and Steward in Skyrim were invited, they’d each have a couple score of people with them, like Jarl Balgruuf and Steward Vignar have. Not everyone can stay at the Candlehearth, so they’d have to camp outside the city.”

“Aye,” she answered, not because she agreed, but because there was nothing else to say. “Suppose they would.”

“Look!” he said, sounding excited. “Over there. Vilkas and Farkas have found Ralof.”

That perked her up. They started their horses again, at long last breaking out of the marching column, though the area grew no less crowded. Now they had to contend with haphazard lanes and blind alleys, as people had set up their tents wherever they pleased without rhyme or reason. When they were able to find a route, their progress was often interrupted with servants running errands, soldiers sauntering and blustering after drinking too much, and once a couple of chickens that had escaped their pens.

“Vorstag!” a familiar voice called, and Gerhild glanced up to see Ralof striding through the chaos, Vilkas and Farkas flanking him, the three of them able to make enough of an impression that the flow parted for them. They stopped their horses and waited, Vorstag dismounting first so he could lift Gerhild down. She kept her cape closed and her hood up, not quite ready yet for every stranger around them to know the Dragonborn was in their midst.

Then Ralof was there, laughing and hugging and slapping backs.

“Oh, am I glad to see you,” Gerhild said softly when it was her turn, accepting a few slaps in the process.

“Aye, well, when I got my invitation addressed to ‘General Ralof—retired,’ I knew I didn’t have the option to say no. Besides,” he winked at her, “I am supposed to be your escort every time you’re in Windhelm.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t think Ulfric will hold you to that anymore…”

Ralof shrugged a shoulder. “Not taking any chances. Though I think you can manage to get to the palace today, just you and Vorstag. I’ll dust off my uniform in time for the start of the celebration.”

“The start?” she asked, one eyebrow lifting slightly.

“Aye,” he added, his voice somewhere between laughter and a groan, “As I hear it, Lady Nilsine has planned several days of feasting and contests and entertainment.”

“Stuhn’s Shield,” she swore softly. Vorstag placed his arm around her shoulders, and she leaned into him willingly.

Something green caught her attention, a flicker that popped up within the ever-moving crowd, somewhere in her peripheral vision, but as soon as she turned her head…

…it was gone.

“I’ve already checked,” Ralof was continuing, dragging her focus back to him, “There’s rooms in the palace for every Jarl and Steward and, of course, the guest of honor, but the rest of us have to camp outside.”

“Farkas and I are going to stay outside, too,” Vilkas stated. “Don’t know if the Harbinger ranks a room, but we’d feel better out here, anyway. Though I’ll go with you to pay my respects.”

“I’ll stay here and find a spot to put up our tent,” offered Farkas.

“There’s room still by mine,” Ralof said. “Enough for one or two more, seeing as how Lydia’s here, too.”

She was just coming up to them, her face redder than normal. “My Thane,” she said, her voice formal and dry.

“Lydia,” Gerhild answered, “Stay here today, with Ralof and the others, put up your tent, get settled in. Tomorrow you can, er, by the Nine…” her voice trailed away. “How many fucking escorts am I going to have?”

“Language,” chided Vorstag.

“It’s Argis,” she countered, nodding her chin.

Vorstag spun his head in the direction she indicated, neither able to believe her word, nor able to believe his eyes. Stomping through the crowds was a familiar face, with a familiar tattoo, blond braids to either side, and a goatee obscuring his expression. “Shit.”

“Lady Gerhild,” Argis bowed to her first, “Er, I mean, my Thane…”

“Your Thane?” Lydia scoffed.

“…Or, er, what am I supposed to call you?”

Gerhild felt the world give a little tilt, nothing alarming, but enough to let her know things were getting out of hand. “Argis, hello. Allow me to make some introductions.”

“Is he your brother?” Farkas asked, staring at the side of Argis’ face, the side that sported a tattoo identical to the one on Vorstag’s cheek.

“This is Vilkas, Harbinger of the Companions, and his twin brother Farkas, also a Companion.”

“So you’re the one I keep getting mistaken for?” Ralof hummed.

“This is Ralof of Riverwood, a retired Stormcloak General, and my oldest friend here in Skyrim.”

“He’s the one from Markarth?” Lydia asked.

“And, ah, Lydia, my housecarl in Whiterun. Everyone, this is Argis, my housecarl in Markarth.”

Vorstag was desperately trying not to blush, but everyones’ eyes kept sweeping from Argis’ cheek to his, comparing their tattoos. He could just see the questions building up within them.

“Aye, I know what you’re thinking,” Gerhild continued. “Argis and Vorstag are both from Markarth, and worked together as sellswords when they were younger. They got the matching tattoos then. Argis, I take it Rhiada came with you?” she tried to simply explain the tattoos, hoping no one would think to inquire further, and then deftly changed the subject.

Argis was also trying hard not to either look at Vorstag, or allow his own cheeks to blush. “Aye, she’s in our tent with Maniel. I tried to get them a room at the Candlehearth, but they’re filled to overflowing. Maniel’s not well, you see, and someplace a little less drafty would be better.”

“You never mentioned this in your letters,” she scolded him.

Argis shrugged. “Didn’t want to worry you. Bothela’s doing what she can, but so far, nothing’s helped.”

“Come with us,” she commanded, “Into the city. I’ll see if I can use my title to get you three a room at the inn, or maybe with some friends, maybe even at the palace.”

“That’s… not why I came here to see you…”

“I know,” she answered, “And I’m sorry, Argis, that you and Rhiada had to find out this way. I truly am. I never intended to lie to you, or keep the truth from you. I only felt that the less people who knew I was Dragonborn, the easier it would be for me to do what needed to be done.”

Argis nodded, his mouth grim, not at all satisfied with her explanation, but willing to leave it for now.

Ralof twitched his head to the side, like he was looking for something, something that wasn't there…

“Well,” Gerhild missed his reaction, instead squaring her shoulders and looking up at Vorstag, “Shall we get this over with?”

Ralof shook his head, giving up looking for that flash of green, telling himself it was only because the scene was familiar, traveling with Gerhild and the Stormcloak army after ending the war, and that green-cowled Altmer… “I’ll, ah, take care of your horses, and have your packs brought up to you later.”

“Thank you, Ralof,” Vorstag answered. Then looking down at his wife, he finished, “Let’s get going.”

Gerhild nodded. She kept her cape closed, still not wanting everyone to see her babe, but she did push the hood from her head. They strode forwards, Gerhild and Vorstag side-by-side, Vilkas and Argis flanking them. It didn’t take long before she was recognized—apparently lookouts had been placed within the camp-city specifically to watch for her. She tried not to roll her eyes as cries of, “Dragonborn!” “Gerhild!” and, “Of Skyrim!” filled the air.

“Stuhn’s Shield,” she muttered beneath her breath.

* * *

 _“She’s here! She’s here!”_ he chorused within his thoughts. _“Ah, how perfect. How utterly perfect. Killed within the very bosom of Skyrim. Killed beneath the High King’s nose. Oh, the Brotherhood must be here. They must be. And they’ll kill her here. Think of the scene it will be, the panic it will create. Yes, yes, yes. She will die here, here, and I get to watch!”_

* * *

The Palace of the Kings was festooned already for the start of the celebration, even though it was two days hence. Gerhild couldn’t help herself, her steps stuttering and her eyes growing wide as she tried to take it all in. Every supporting column was wrapped in a dark brown fabric, painted to resemble tree trunks. High above was draped a green canvas, also painted to resemble leaves and branches. There were cages hanging from just beneath, each one holding at least two or three small songbirds. Every sconce along the walls was empty of its torch, containing bunches of fresh flowers instead. Brightly colored ribbons were strung everywhere, draped over birdcages, lashed between braziers, woven across the long dining table. Each door leading away from the main Hall had been painted a different color, possibly to help the various visitors find their ways to their rooms, possibly because Nilsine—apparently—loved bright colors.

Even Ulfric’s throne hadn’t escaped unscathed, the unforgiving and impassible stone was draped with rich furs, the harsh corners softened by silk cushions. On the seat, instead of the slouching form of Ulfric, was the barbaric looking Jagged Crown.

“Gerhild!” cried Nilsine from the center of it all, just to one side of the long table. “I wanted to surprise you, but it would’ve been impossible to complete all the decorations in a single day. Do you like it? Please, say you do.”

Ulfric stood a few feet from her, speaking quietly with Vignar. He refused to look at Gerhild and Vorstag as they approached, his expression cool and aloof as he gave his head only the most minimal of shakes to whatever Vignar was saying. Gerhild and Vorstag walked slowly enough to allow Vignar time to finish his obeisance to the High King of Skyrim.

“It’s… grand… Nilsine,” Gerhild struggled to find something to say. Actually, the decorations, though no doubt intended to represent a forest, seemed a little too overdone. “I feel like I’m in a mythical forest.”

“Oh!” she clapped her hands, stepping forwards to reach for Gerhild. “I’m so glad, I’m so…” she stopped with a gasp, having just tried to give her friend a hug. Gerhild smiled as she flipped the corners of her cape back over her shoulders with one hand, the other supporting the sling. “A baby! Oh, let me see. Boy or girl? Doesn’t matter. How old is he? She?” Nilsine paused to give a little laugh. “I suppose it does matter…”

Gerhild laughed too, though at Nilsine’s exuberance. “A boy, Hamming. He’s two-and-a-half months.”

“That… seems early…” Nilsine struggled with the math. “Weren’t you married in Sun’s Height?”

“Aye,” she answered with a straight face as she lied, “He was over a month early.” Truthfully, Hamming had only been two weeks early, but they were still maintaining the legitimacy of his conception. Gerhild couldn’t have said why they bothered, other than they had kept her pregnancy a secret during the wedding to all but a few close friends, because they were trying to keep their private life—well—private, but having to come here for the celebration… They couldn’t keep Hamming hidden, so they were sort of trapped within the lie. A twinge of guilt pulled at her heart, starting off her son’s life with a falsehood, but soon—if she and Vorstag could defeat Alduin—she could retire to Riverwood and have her privacy and not give a damn any longer!

Ulfric’s ears were burning trying to catch their conversation. Outwardly he greeted Vilkas, thanked him for his attendance, informed him of a room for his use, offered the services of Jorleif should he require anything else. Inwardly he boiled: not even a year since their wedding, and already they have a son! Fucking bastard couldn’t wait to impregnate her, to put a child in her belly, the child she denied him. Damn him. Damn them both!

“Ulfric, come see Hamming… oh!” Nilsine gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. “Excuse me, I forgot there were others here. You must be… the Harbinger?”

“Vilkas of Whiterun,” he inclined his head, “Harbinger of the Companions. If you don’t mind, High King Ulfric, I would decline the use of a room in the palace. It is a generous offer, but as a Companion, I’m more used to camp cots than feather mattresses. If I may be so bold, however,” he exchanged a look with Gerhild, “May I claim the room for another?”

“Oh, I don’t know, there are others who could use a room, people I hadn’t thought of…” Nilsine hedged.

“It’s for Argis here,” Gerhild butted in, indicating the man who had tried to stay in the background, “My housecarl from Markarth. Actually, for his son, Maniel. The boy’s sick, and a warm room would be better for his health than a drafty tent.”

“Your little boy is sick?” Everyone could tell from her sympathetic tone of voice that Nilsine had already made up her mind to give them the room.

“Aye,” Argis gave a bow as he stepped forward, “It’s his lungs; they’re weak. A chill could be deadly, make him catch cold, cough…”

“Not another word. Jorleif!” she called for Ulfric’s Steward. The gentle Nord with his droopy mustache appeared at her elbow almost as if by magic. “Jorleif, Lord Vilkas won’t be using his room. You’re to prepare it for Argis and his wife and son. The little boy is sickly. How old is he?”

“Oh, ah, he’ll turn four in Last Seed,” Argis answered.

Gerhild smiled, leaving Argis in Nilsine’s very capable hands. On her way to Ulfric, she mouthed a, “Thank you,” to Vilkas, who gave her a wink in answer.

Vorstag had already stepped up to Ulfric, having left the women to their own devices, and taking on the responsibility himself to handle the formal greetings. “Your Majesty,” he bowed, “Thank you for holding this celebration in our honor. We are overwhelmed by your generosity and thoughtfulness.”

“The pleasure is mine, Lord Vorstag. Know that the whole of Skyrim rejoices in the new life you and the Dragonborn have begun together.” His goatee bent with a smile as Gerhild neared them. “Now that we have that out of the way, may I get a look at Hamming?” When Ulfric spoke, his voice was deep and warm. He made himself look at the babe, lying awake next to Gerhild’s bosom, blinking at him with dark eyes—another child denied him. He reached out towards the boy, but Hamming made no move to grasp his finger. “He’s a lot less fussy than Friga ever was.” He patted the soft brown hair on the boy’s head, resisting the urge to touch her breast through her dress.

“Aye,” sighed Gerhild, “He takes after his father.” She was more than a little relieved to see Ulfric take the news of their marriage—and their child—a lot better than she had feared. Vorstag seemed relieved as well, his stance relaxing a little and his arm coming up to wrap around her waist.

“Well, I won’t keep you,” he continued to smile. “I know the journey here must have been taxing, and you will no doubt wish to freshen up. I imagine Nilsine will claim your attention this evening; with all the upcoming festivities, there will be no formal dinner tonight. But if you find the time later, perhaps tomorrow, I would like the chance to talk with you.” He looked both of them in the eyes, seeming to speak to both of them, but his words were for Gerhild alone—if only she could see it.

“Thank you, Ulfric,” she answered for them. “Excuse us.”

They walked away, their place taken up by a lesser noble who had tagged along with them from Whiterun. Vorstag let out a deep breath, never realizing he had been holding it. “Stuhn’s Shield, but that had me worried.”

Gerhild smiled. “Me, too,” she admitted. “But I’m glad our apprehension was for nothing.”

“Still, wonder what he could want to speak with us about?”

“Considering Vignar was right in front of us in the receiving line,” Gerhild opined, allowing Vorstag to open the door leading to the stairs, “I’d guess it has something to do with our plans to use Dragonsreach to capture a dragon.”

Vorstag held the door for her, taking the opportunity to look back at Ulfric as she crossed the threshold. He had been watching them, too far away for Vorstag to make out his expression, though the quickness with which he looked away made him want to feel uneasy. “Suppose so…”

* * *

The room was dark, the only light coming from the single lamp in the corner behind the door. Two chairs bracketed a table, one well-worn, the other hardly ever touched. In the worn chair sat a man, one ankle lying on the opposite knee, a large and weathered tome on his lap. Thick fingers, calloused and scarred from years of battle and hardship, turned the brittle pages with false idleness. Steel blue eyes scanned the yellowed parchment, focused not so much on the words as on the door, just beyond the circle of light.

Ulfric didn’t truly expect Gerhild to come to him, not tonight, not when her absence from her husband would be so blatant. But give it a day or two, let the festivities begin, along with the drinking and the competitions, and Vorstag would become too occupied to remain glued to his wife’s side. Then she would feel abandoned. Then she would be alone. Then she would come to him. In the meantime, he would endure his insomnia with the stoicism that was his trademark.

When a knock sounded, his heart almost gave out.

He had to take a staggering breath and give a little cough, before he could trust his voice to sound strong and sure. With his heart continuing to threaten to beat arrhythmically, he called out, “Come.”

He willed the door to open. It did.

He willed the voice calling out for him to be female. It was.

He willed a mane of dark gold hair to appear…

“I thought I would find you there, Ulfric.”

“Nilsine,” he acknowledged the woman peeking around the door to discover him in his favorite spot. “Come in. Close the door.”

“Oh, of course,” she blushed, stepping inside and firmly closing the door behind her. She stood for half a moment, hesitating, before making up her mind to approach him. “Too excited to sleep, too, are you?”

“Aye,” he sighed, allowing her to think what she wanted. “Please, sit,” he indicated the extra chair.

“Thank you,” she all but whispered, her cheeks still a little flushed.

They were silent for a few moments, each lost within themselves, unable to communicate their thoughts—their intentions— to the other. Ulfric, truthfully, had nothing to say to her, nothing personal, it having all been said already. She had given him his ‘heir;’ she was now free to pursue whatever amusements she wished.

As was he.

Nilsine’s thoughts, however, were heading in the opposite direction. “Ulfric…” she began, hesitant, unsure. Folding her hands demurely on her lap, she tried again, “I was so glad to see them today, Gerhild and Vorstag. I wasn’t sure they’d get the invitation in time.”

He made some sort of agreeable sound, not sure where this was going.

“I had supper with her in my chambers. We let Friga meet Hamming, though she didn’t know what to do with a baby. She kept handing him her ball, and couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t take it. Finally she just set it on his lap.”

“Sounds like she figured out a way to deal with him,” he answered.

“Vorstag was off somewhere, I think with Ralof in the camp outside the city, so we were able to have a good talk. I miss having her around.”

“As do I.” Never had he spoken truer words.

“I was excited when the scouts reported they were near Windhelm. But when they walked into the palace, I couldn’t believe the change over her. She was so happy. So content. And the baby! She… she and Vorstag look so good together, so right, don’t they?” She didn’t wait for an answer, not that Ulfric could have given an acceptable answer. “I envy them, their life together.”

He did, too.

“I wish…” she bit her lip, stopping her words, fearing his answer. Yet she had come here tonight with the intent of asking him, and she would never get an answer unless she asked. “I wish we could have what they have. Love. A family. A home. Aye, we’re married, and we have Friga, but I don’t feel like there’s anything between us. Any sort of relationship or, or, or even friendship.”

“That was what you wanted,” he reminded her.

“Aye, I know, but… I was wrong. I… I see that now. I see what a marriage can be, what it’s supposed to be, and I want that, I want what Gerhild and Vorstag have. Is that selfish of me?”

“Aye,” he answered, “If a person can be selfish for wanting something that is good and right.” By Talos, what he wouldn’t give to have what Vorstag has. Who Vorstag has.

“Is it… is it too late? For us? Can we have, what they have? Love? A home? A family?”

Ulfric stared at her, his blue eyes boring into her soul, while keeping his own thoughts locked within a steel chest. The change in her attitude was sudden, and he didn’t trust it came solely from Gerhild’s arrival. He wondered if her bodyguard, Yrsarald, had grown tired of their trysts, or perhaps wary of Ulfric finding out, and broken off their affair. Or perhaps just the opposite had happened—perhaps Nilsine was pregnant again, and wished to normalize their relationship so her second child could also claim legitimacy.

For whatever reason, if she wanted them to have a ‘relationship,’ he was going to make her pay for it dearly. After all, it would cost him just as much, if not more, to give her what she wanted.

“I’m too old for you, Nilsine,” he sighed, softening his voice, allowing a little of his feebleness to creep in. “I don’t have that many years left. Whatever life we could have together, would be short-lived.”

“It would be worth it,” she countered, thinking she was sensing weakness, “Far more than the nothing we have now.”

“Still, I…” he looked away, feigning humiliation, “I’m not a whole man.”

“You were whole enough to father Friga.”

Did I, he thought to himself bitterly. “That’s not what I meant. I… I cannot…” He pushed himself from his chair, stalking over to the hearth, every move, every half-choked phrase, calculated to draw sympathy from her. “You don’t know what happened… to me… I cannot…”

Her hand on his shoulder was unexpected; he didn’t think she would come to him so quickly. She must be more determined to have a true marriage—or desperate to legitimize her babe—than he at first thought. “You cannot rest in another’s bed, even your wife’s bed. You cannot sleep unless you’re fully clothed, and some nights not even then. You cannot let anyone in, let anyone see, what the Thalmor did to you. Aye, my husband,” she boldly claimed, moving to his side so she could see his face, “I know. Some of it, at least. I know you were a young man in the Great War. That you were captured, held for over a year. I don’t imagine they held feasts in your honor, even as the son of a Jarl. And… I’ve felt…” her hand slipped around to his chest, to where his amulet of Talos lay, directly over a wide scar, “I’ve felt the scars…”

“Don’t touch me!” he snarled, catching her wrist in a vise-like grip, hard enough to bruise, possibly sprain. Aye, this was costing him, and he would make her pay the fee. With a slight hardening of his expression, he bent her wrist back just a little bit further.

Nilsine dropped to her knees, her wrist on fire, but she refused to cry out. She refused to look away from his steel blue eyes. Instead, in a very quiet voice that overflowed with patience, as gentle as he was cruel, she said, “You’re hurting me.”

He stared at her, unwilling to believe what was happening. He couldn’t scare the chit. Couldn’t intimidate her. Couldn’t drive her away. Whatever the cost, she was going to pay it. Damn her.

Damn them both.

He let go of her wrist, seeing that he couldn’t get rid of her. Very well, it seemed he would have a wife, after all, though not the one he wished. That didn’t mean he couldn’t still have his pet Dragonborn… someday.

“I’m sorry, Nilsine,” he began, turning away, heading towards a side table where he kept some vials. “I’ll get you a potion…”

“No need,” she denied, “No harm done.”

He fumbled in a drawer, neither turning back towards her nor speaking, letting her think he was ashamed of his actions, rather than feeling better for having let off a little of the violent tension. Again she came to him. Again she touched him, her hand over his, ending his searching. “It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not,” he whispered, pretending remorse, “You see it now, don’t you? I’m not well. I’m not alright. I… I can’t be… cannot have… cannot let anyone…”

“Shh,” she brushed a braid back behind an ear.

“I cannot trust myself, Nilsine.” He looked back at her, the flickering firelight playing with his expression, flashing between self-hatred and self-doubt. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’m stronger than I look,” she affirmed.

So be it, he thought to himself.

In a move more sudden and sure than a man his age should have been able to make, Ulfric seized her shoulders and shoved her back against the stone wall. Nilsine gave out a startled gasp, but otherwise made no protest. When his lips crushed hers with a cruel force, she allowed him entrance.

When his calloused hand ripped open the front of her bodice, she began to pull his tunic free from his belt.

By Talos it had been a long time, far too long, since he had touched a woman, since a woman had touched him. When was the last time he’d lain with Gerhild? She had seen his scars, she had touched them—touched him—and had not flinched. Yet they’d never fully consummated, never reached that climactic state. He felt cheated by that, cheated by Vorstag, that the upstart mercenary had gotten something he had never achieved.

The times he’d lain with Nilsine before tonight didn’t count. He had performed, as was his duty as her husband, but it was nothing more than a physical act. And he was sure she gained little if any pleasure from their joining. Perhaps she would tonight, perhaps she wouldn’t. Either way, tonight wasn’t about her pleasure; it was about making her pay.

The last time he had lain with a woman, the last time he had been truly loved, was with Maeganna. Over a quarter of a century ago. Had it been so long? Was he such a terrible man, that he hadn’t earned another chance at love since then? Aye, he had betrayed his fellow soldiers, broken under torture, but hadn’t he redeem himself afterwards? Hadn’t he kill countless Thalmor since then? Hadn’t he driven them from Skyrim? How long was he to pay for that sin?

No, he thought to himself. No more payments. No more self-denial. No more self-imposed punishments. Tonight would be someone else’s turn to pay. And Nilsine had offered herself as a surrogate sacrifice.

He spun her around, facing her away, grinding her cheek into the wall. He heard her soft gasp, but she didn’t pull away, didn’t complain about the pain, didn’t ask him to stop. He pulled her skirts up from behind, a broken nail raising a welt that ran from mid-thigh to just within the hem of her small clothes. She shivered, but when he kicked her legs apart, she didn’t stop him. How far could he push her, he wondered, how much was she willing to pay?

His fingers fumbled with her underclothing, quickly giving up trying to undo the stays and simply ripping the delicate linen fabric away. She sucked in a breath in response to the feel of cool air across her skin, but made no other sound. He leaned in close, pressing his groin—straining at the leather of his leggings—against her ass. He let her feel just how fully aroused he had becoming, rubbing himself up and down her crack, using the friction of the frustrated grinding to harden his shaft.

“Husband…” she sighed, a strange sort of sound in her voice, something akin to… desire? She couldn’t be feeling that, not for him, not for this. He slipped a hand down there, down to her swelling lips, and found moisture. She… Nilsine… wanted this… wanted him…?

It had been too long. Ulfric lost himself, lost his self-loathing, lost his self-doubt. He spun her around to face him, a hand on either shoulder, holding her steady, capturing her eyes with his. Aye, he could see it, the longing, the desire, the need; as overpowering within her soul as it was in his. Perhaps he’d been wrong about her. Perhaps…

Time would tell.

Her skirt was still half-bunched around her hips. He gripped as much of the fabric as he could and lifted, hearing the soft protest as more fabric tore, though nothing came from her lips but a low moan. He pulled the dress off over the top of her head and tossed it to the side, unneeded. Her breasts were modestly covered with more soft linen, but he didn’t bother to remove it, pushing it out of the way until both her breasts were freed. His rough hands cupped the soft orbs, kneading the tender flesh, pinching just shy of being painful.

“…Ulfric…?” Her voice was panting, a little scared, a little excited, a little wanton.

She was close, and growing closer. She wouldn’t need much more; a little push, a little empowerment, and his little Nilsine would become quite formidable. He could easily make her believe tonight would be her victory, even if she woke tomorrow covered in bruises. Women were so weak, so easily manipulated. All he had to do was make her think she was in control, that everything tonight was her idea, that they slept together because she willed it. He stopped, dropping his hands from her breasts as if she was on fire, hanging his head once more with affected shame. “I… I don’t want to hurt you…”

“You haven’t,” she shook her head, ignoring the throbbing in her wrist.

He saw the lie, and smiled inside. “You don’t deserve this… me… I…”

“You’re my husband,” she stopped his stuttering words, her hand to his cheek. “Who else would I want?”

“You… want?” he repeated, lifting saddened eyes to hers. She was easier to play than Gerhild—no! Damn that woman, but he wasn’t going to think of her tonight, not at least until after he’d slept with Nilsine. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do,” she affirmed, pulling off what little remained of her clothing. “I do.”

Nilsine was so sure of herself. She had spent all evening talking with Gerhild, catching up on everything that had happened between her and Vorstag. Some of it Gerhild wouldn’t tell, other than a vague reference or two, enough to let Nilsine know that Vorstag had suffered at the hands of the Thalmor. Just like Gerhild. Just like Ulfric. Yet Gerhild and Vorstag had managed—somehow—to work through their tortured past. She wanted the same for Ulfric. He had spent too much time alone, too much time in pain, too much of himself for the betterment of Skyrim. He deserved happiness, too.

And she would give it to him. Whatever the cost. Aye, by morning she’d have a few bruises or a sprained wrist, due to his inability to control violent tendencies, an outgrowth of his torture. It would be a small price to pay for his healing.

She swallowed, trying not to show her apprehension, and took hold of the hem of his tunic.

Ulfric held himself perfectly still. He didn’t want his ruined body revealed, didn’t want to see the revulsion mar her features, didn’t want her pity or her sympathy. He didn’t want her! But she was all he had, at hand, and she was willing, and it had been so very long. Grimacing inside, vowing to himself that this would be the LAST person to ever see his grotesque form, he lifted his arms and allowed her to pull the fabric from his torso.

He saw it all, just as he knew would be there, the slight curl to her upper lip, the widening of her eyes as she looked at every naked inch. His tunic fell from her fingers as she simply stood there, stood and stared and refused to move. He wasn’t even sure she was breathing, she was so perfectly statuesque. Rage boiled within him, rage at what the Thalmor had done to him, at what the Thalmor had robbed him of. He’d never have a normal relationship with a woman, never inspire anything more than pity and disgust, never be loved…

Nilsine lifted one trembling hand up to hang in the space between them. Her fingertips were humming, the skin of her wrist already darkening with a bruise, but she pushed forward, as if forcing her way through heavy resistance, and touched his chest. She brushed aside his amulet of Talos and placed her fingers against the scar beneath.

“Whatever happened…” her voice broke, and she had to clear it before she could try again to speak. “Whatever they did to you, it’s over. They can’t hurt you anymore. Let it go, Ulfric. Please, my husband. Let it go.”

He gripped her shoulders and gave her a small shake, knocking her hand away. “You say that,” his low voice grew fierce, his fingers burrowing into her tender flesh. “You say that, but after seeing these scars, you started feeling disgust towards me. Don’t deny it; I saw the look on your face. You looked at me and saw…”

“I saw a man who survived,” she interrupted him. “I saw a man who is strong and courageous, who doesn’t flinch from his past, no matter what lies behind him. But I’m telling you, my husband, that it is over. The Thalmor are gone. Let go of your hatred,” she reached out and touched him again, “And try to love.” She lifted her eyes up towards his, doing her best to keep her expression soft and caring and full of hope. “Love me.”

Ulfric decided it was time. He took hold of her shoulders and saw her flinch, but this time he kept his hold gentle, caressing her skin as if it were silk. She shuddered at the unexpected tenderness, her nipples growing hard. He bent his neck and kissed her with equal tenderness, before scooping her up and carrying her towards the bed. She wanted this; why not give it to her?

His soul was already beyond redemption.

* * *

The music was loud and joyous, and a lot of couples were dancing in the crowded Hall. The table and benches had been pushed to the side to make room for the festivities; even Ulfric’s throne had been placed against the wall. He sat there, his cold steel blue eyes surveying his subjects like a sabre cat surveying penned goats, deciding which one to kill first. “Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves.”

Nilsine sat beside him, a softer smile on her face, and a triumphant though slightly troubled light in her eyes. For three nights now she had lain with Ulfric, three nights in a row, and though every morning she needed a healing potion, she felt things might already be getting better. They would get better. They had to. “I’m ever so glad. I did put so much time and effort into this.”

Ulfric’s eyes found Vorstag, a mug in one hand and Gerhild in the other, standing and talking with that housecarl of hers from Markarth. It had been remarkable, seeing that he and Argis had the same tattoos, but as yet he had not had the chance to inquire about it. “You did a wonderful job, Nilsine. You should be proud of yourself.”

She accepted a goblet from a passing servant, though she noted Ulfric waved him away. That was fine by her, allowing for her free hand to stray towards his, resting on the arm of his chair, the fingers tapping in time to the music. She barely touched his wrist, but was encouraged when he didn’t pull away. “The music, especially, has been a great success. Perhaps, later, we could try for a dance or two.”

Ulfric turned and looked at her. Nilsine had been a very willing whipping boy these past few nights. He supposed it would only serve to reinforce her position, to affirm that she was the one changing him, if he broke tradition and danced. His goatee bent beneath a smile, in no way genuine, as he admitted, “I’m afraid I’m not very good. I believe the phrase is: I have two left feet.”

She blushed a little, feeling her heart flutter, “Then we’ll wait for a slower paced song.” In answer, his hand moved to hold hers.

The servant, his head slightly bowed and covered with a cap tilted on a jaunty angle, paused a moment to listen, but heard nothing useful. He continued through the bystanders along the sides of the Hall.

“It’s preposterous!” Vignar was grousing, “Catching a dragon in the middle of a city. The citizens will panic! There will be chaos. Mark my words, Harbinger, no good will come of this!”

Vilkas took a cup from the passing servant. “Vignar, there’s no use complaining about it now. High King Ulfric has given Gerhild his blessing. She will use Dragonsreach to capture a dragon. She has to, to defeat Alduin. Or would you rather we let the World-Eater fulfill the prophecy?”

Vignar also took a goblet, but didn’t answer.

“Listen, the Companions will help. We’ll patrol the city streets, advise the citizens to stay indoors, have volunteers standing by to put out any fires.” He took a sip of the wine, “You can’t stop her; no one can stop Gerhild when she puts her mind to something. Might as well help. Or get out of her way.”

Vignar huffed, “Excuse me. I feel I need a breath of fresh air.”

Vilkas let him go, knowing the old man’s pride was wounded. He supposed it was Vignar’s own fault—he had accosted Ulfric upon their arrival, while being received to the palace, and demanded Ulfric make a decision right then and there. He should have known that the High King would side with the very woman who had won him Skyrim. He turned and saw the servant was still nearby. “Hey, you,” he started for the man, noticing he was an Altmer, down on his luck if his slightly haggard expression and widened eyes were anything to go by. Vilkas softened his voice to ask, “Is there anything to drink around here stronger than wine?”

“Oh, ah,” the servant nervously licked his lips. He thought he had been caught eavesdropping. That would would have proven disastrous. He couldn’t allow any word—any suspicion—to get back to HER. “I wouldn’t know, milord. You might try asking over by the kitchens.”

Vilkas nodded and stalked off.

Dragonsreach, the servant repeated to himself, trying to remember where Dragonsreach, and the Companions, could both be found. But his mind wasn’t working like it used to, the gears rusty, his thoughts jumbled. And he no longer had other resources to draw from, only himself.

He moved on, the tray growing lighter, but there was one more stop to make. It would be risky, but what was life without risks?

“We’ve tried everything,” Rhiada was saying. “Potions, poultices, spells, changing his diet, nothing seems to help. Bothela won’t give up, but she’s getting so old, and her apprentice doesn’t have the experience, and I’m afraid…”

“Rhiada,” Gerhild set her hand on the other woman’s forearm. This wasn’t the time or place for it, but there hadn’t been very many opportunities for them to speak. She glanced at Vorstag, who gave her a nod. Whatever she wanted to do, he’d support it. Feeling reassured with his hand on her shoulder, she turned back to her Steward from Markarth. “Rhiada, on your way back to Markarth, come with us to Whiterun.”

Whiterun, the servant thought to himself, holding the tray before him. One of the men took a goblet, but the others declined. He remembered now; Whiterun was where the Companions had their mead hall. Practically in the exact center of Skyrim.

“There’s a healer there,” Gerhild continued, the servant within her peripheral vision but not within her focus, “In the Temple of Kynareth, by the name of Danica Pure-Spring. She’s a miracle worker, Rhiada, I can personally attest to that. Perhaps she knows of something that could help Maniel. At the very least, it couldn’t hurt to ask.”

“Oh, but we couldn’t…”

“And why not?” Gerhild countered.

“I… we… didn’t bring enough coin,” Rhiada blushed. “We have enough to see us to and from Windhelm, but I didn't allow for any side trips. We won’t have the monies to rent a room at the inn, or purchase food, or…”

“You’ll stay in Breezehome,” Vorstag offered, “Our house in Whiterun. It’s not much, two bedrooms upstairs, one closet down that we could turn into a room for Maniel.”

“And we won’t be staying there, not at first,” Gerhild added. “There’s, ah, a little matter we need to attend to, so you’ll have the house to yourself—except for Lydia. And I’m sure Danica will be finished with Maniel by the time we get back from our little, er, adventure.”

“She means to say,” Ralof quipped, setting his empty mug on the tray before the servant could move off, “That you three can stay at Breezehome while she and Vorstag take on Alduin.”

Argis took a swallow from his fresh goblet of wine. “That’s, ah, very generous of you, my Thane. But, we couldn’t accept charity…”

“You’re my employees,” she countered, “And my friends; so it’s not charity. Tell you what: watch Hamming for us, while we’re away, and we’ll call it even…”

The servant had already slipped away by then, not wanting to stay too long in case SHE looked at him. His soul shouted with delight. He not only knew in which city the bitch lived, but had her home address. Breezehome, in Whiterun. In retrospect he supposed it made sense, the Dragonborn wanting to live fairly central within Skyrim. He would go there. He would wait for her. And he would be ready, should the Dark Brotherhood fail him…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized, I still have that poll up on my profile page (on ff.net) of how Ulfric should die. So, um, I guess I’ll leave it there for a few more chapters, and then… *insert evil giggle*


	8. Suspicions

“Watch out for his right, Arctic Stones!”

Vorstag heard Rolff’s shout over those of the other bystanders. He saw Benor’s meaty fist swinging at the end of a long arm with enough momentum to knock his head off. With reflexes born of years of traveling with Gerhild, he ducked, hit the ground, and rolled. Springing to his feet he found himself on Benor’s blindside. He landed a quick jab to the other’s ribs before dancing back out of reach.

Cheers rose up, along with some jeers, and despite the seriousness of the competition, Vorstag was grinning broadly. He always enjoyed a good fight, and Benor—a guard out of Morthal and part of Jarl Sorli’s entourage—was proving to be a challenge.

“You’re quick, old man,” Benor taunted him, though in fact he was only a year or two younger. “And spry. To think I heard you took an arrow to the knee.”

Vorstag’s smile grew, if it were possible, at the quaint euphemism used to describe getting married. “Aye, but my adventuring days are far from over.” He blocked the swing to the outside this time, spun with it, and focused his momentum into a kick aimed at Benor’s leg, felling him to the ground near the side of the ring. “The ‘arrow in my knee’ happens to be very good at casting healing spells.”

Benor grunted heavily, pushing himself to his hands and knees. Vorstag backed off a pace, giving him a chance to catch his breath and turning to acknowledge the crowd’s cheers. “Like to see her heal this,” Benor grumbled. He grabbed a loose rail from the makeshift fence and swung it upwards, catching Vorstag from behind, right between his legs.

The crowd booed and jeered the unsportsmanlike conduct. Vorstag grunted and staggered forwards a few yards, but true to his nickname he didn’t fold like a paper doll. Benor’s eyes grew wide as Vorstag turned back towards him. He had been sure there had to be more story than truth behind that name, but Vorstag showed no signs of discomfort, other than his smile had vanished. Benor dropped the thin wooden pole and scrambled backwards, struggling to escape and gain his feet at the same time.

Ulfric sat at the side of the ring, his chair elevated over the gathered crowd. More than a hundred men and women had signed up for the competition, enough so that they were already into their second day of rounds. Ulfric idly drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, his expression unreadable, as he watched Vorstag fight.

The competitors had stripped down to their tunics and leggings, even removing their shoes lest the edge of a boot or a metal buckle cause serious damage. This was supposed to be a friendly competition, after all, something Benor had forgotten in the heat of battle. Vorstag, like most of the men, had stripped even further, sweating profusely and wanting what little relief could be found from the cool mountain air. Ulfric stared at him with cold steel eyes. He knew Vorstag had been held captive by the Thalmor for several months, yet there was hardly a scar on his perfect body. A few scratches across his ribs were all he could see from his vantage point, but those scars were jagged as if caused by claws, not knives.

Ulfric fumed, wondering how Vorstag could have escaped so unscathed.

“Lady Nilsine didn’t come to watch?”

Galmar’s question broke him from his thoughts. “No,” he answered, “She said she couldn’t bear the violence. She and Gerhild are enjoying the bards’ storytelling instead.”

“Ah, that explains why Gerhild isn’t here. Thought for sure she’d wanna see that Vorstag didn’t get too roughed up. Look out!”

Vorstag repeated his blocking maneuver from before, spinning down the outside of Benor’s swing, but this time the other was ready for him and countered with a backwards elbow into Vorstag’s face. Or tried to. Vorstag turned his head at the last moment and caught the blow just behind his ear. He finished spinning, but instead of kicking at Benor’s knee, he grabbed the elbow and forearm and took them with him. Benor was thrown off balance, pulled sideways off his feet, twirling though the air, to land face first in the packed dirt, his arm bent painfully behind him. A sharp knee landed on the small of his back, held there by a heavy weight, knocking the breath from his lungs. He grimaced, kicked, twisted, but couldn’t find any leverage against Vorstag, the movement only making his arm hurt worse. Deciding it would be better to yield than to break his own arm, he slapped the ground three times.

“Ha-ha!” cheered Galmar. “I just won fifty septims! How much did you bet?”

“I’m not betting today,” Ulfric stated simply.

“Huh, too bad,” grumbled Galmar, “You might’ve made enough money to offset the cost of this celebration.”

Ulfric turned to look at his housecarl, his oldest friend. “You never approved of this.”

Galmar hesitated, thinking he might have gone too far. Ulfric had been touchy in the months following Gerhild’s marriage to Vorstag. Since their arrival, however, he seemed a changed man, calm, content, even a little… happy? Satisfied? Perhaps that was all there had been to his initial disgruntlement—a fatherly concern, wanting to make sure Vorstag was the right man for Gerhild, a woman who had been his ward, had been like a daughter to him—had almost been his daughter. He refused to think of how Ulfric had tried to seduce Gerhild. “You hardly have the coin to rebuild in the aftermath of the war, yet you insisted on spending thousands of septims on these festivities.”

Ulfric laughed, a rich and full sound. “There wasn’t as much destruction during the war as there could have been, thanks to Gerhild’s… unique… methods of taking over a Hold. And though I will have to raise taxes, the citizens will hardly notice. They’re more interested in the news of the Dragonborn’s marriage and all that is happening here this week.”

“Ah,” Galmar scratched at his beard, “So this is a distraction.”

“Call it what you like,” allowed Ulfric, “It serves several purposes.”

Galmar grunted and left to collect his winnings, and place his next bet, all on Vorstag of course. Ulfric left him to his gambling, preferring to watch the next pair of combatants, one of which was that housecarl from Markarth, the one with the matching tattoo. He had managed to get Gerhild aside yesterday evening to ask about it, and he could see her story about them being sellswords together in their youth held some truth—the two men fought with similar styles, so they may have indeed known each other, trained with each other, worked with each other. Yet he thought there had to be more behind it. As close as he and Galmar had been in the Great War, they hadn’t gotten matching facial tattoos.

His gaze drifted away from the combat ring to search for Vorstag, but the damned man was out of sight, probably resting in one of the tents before his next match. However, his latest vanquished foe, Benor, was stomping towards the panel of judges, right beneath Ulfric’s chair. He proved to be an interesting distraction.

“I demand a rematch!”

“On what grounds,” one of the five judges asked, sounding bored.

“Vorstag cheated! I hit him in the balls, but he didn’t go down. He must be using some sort of armor or…”

“All contestants were checked before the competition,” another answered. “All items that could be used as armor or weapons were removed.”

Benor wasn’t finished. “What about that arm hold at the end? That wasn’t legal!”

“Picking up a stick and whacking someone in the sweetmeats isn’t legal.”

Benor didn’t see which judge made that comment, but his squat face grew even more ugly as he grew even more angry. “You wanna disqualify me for that? Fine! Then disqualify him, too, for that arm hold!”

“The arm hold wasn’t illegal,” the judge closest to him stated simply. “The blow was. Consider yourself lucky that we allowed you to finish the round. Now, collect your winnings and leave.”

Benor didn’t want to, his face red beneath his stubble, but the judges weren’t paying him any more attention, and a couple of burly guards had stepped forwards. He shot them one last dark look, before storming away.

Ulfric smiled to himself. It seemed Vorstag had just made himself another enemy. …

* * *

Gerhild sat next to Nilsine, her features schooled to show rapt interest. They were listening to yet another bard tell his version of Gerhild’s tale, of how she came to Skyrim, orphaned, starved, captured, sentenced to death…

“I don’t remember the snowstorm, in Helgen, in the middle of summer,” she said in an aside to Nilsine, her lips barely moving.

The young lady laughed, covered her mouth with her hand and pretended to cough. The bard paused, eyed the two ladies suspiciously for a moment, but seeing as Gerhild kept a straight face and only showed concern for her friend’s lack of breath, he took up his recitation once more.

“You are getting me into so much trouble,” hissed Nilsine good-naturedly.

Gerhild winked. “Excuse me, but it helps to break the monotony. Honestly, who’s idea was it to have a competition for the bards?”

“Mine,” admitted Nilsine. “I thought you’d be flattered. And it was something to do while the others were, well…” she waved vaguely towards the main doors.

Gerhild sighed, feeling like she might have stuck her foot into her mouth. “Well, I’ll admit, I am flattered,” she began, trying to placate her guilt and make her friend feel better. “But twenty-three different bards all telling the same story…”

“Aye,” agreed Nilsine, her face a little flushed, “That part sort of got out of hand.”

“Not to mention it’s rather daunting,” she continued, “The way they all tell of how I’ve defeated Alduin, and I haven’t done that part yet. It’s leaving me with quite a lot to live up to.”

Nilsine wanted to giggle again, thinking Gerhild was being funny, but her friend kept such a straight face she couldn’t be sure. She settled for a grin behind her hand.

The doors opened and every head turned to see who was there, interrupting the bard again. He cleared his throat, refused to look, and finished his stanza in a loud and forceful voice, “So began the journey of the woman we know as young Gerhild North-Wind, the bringer of snow.”

“Bravo!” clapped the large Nord who had entered, his heavy fists slapping loudly and echoing through the Hall. Others began a sporadic applause, though Gerhild was sure there were more stanzas waiting. She definitely didn’t mind the interruption, standing and greeting the man, and willingly ignoring the bard’s frustrated looks.

“Farkas,” she took his hands, stilling his applause and reaching up on tiptoe to kiss his stubbled cheek. She never had any trouble distinguishing one twin from the other, even when they weren’t side-by-side. “Did you come to listen to the bards? I thought you’d rather compete in the fights, or at least watch them.”

“Er,” he blushed, seeing as all eyes were watching him. “I got defeated early on; didn’t wanna hurt the guy I was fighting, so I held back too much. Anyway, I was watching today, but then Vilkas sent me to find you. He thought you might want to come watch, too.”

“Oh?” she asked, feeling her heart flutter. She knew Vorstag was competing, and had done quite well yesterday. A lot of people were betting that he’d win the tournament. But if anything had happened to him… “Is it coming to a close already?”

“Aye, er, there’s only three rounds left,” Farkas looked around at everyone watching them. Nilsine had stood, and he quickly remembered his manners and gave her a short bow. “My Lady. Um, Gerhild, we thought you might wanna come see the finish for yourself.”

She didn’t like the tone of his voice. He sounded ill at ease, concerned, and she could tell he was trying hard not to say something in front of so many witnesses. “That sounds like a wonderful idea,” she agreed, playing along for now, knowing she could get it out of him once they were alone. “Excuse me, Lady Nilsine, but I think I should watch the end of the competition. My husband is one of the combatants, ya know.”

“Of course,” Nilsine readily excused her. “I shall remain here to declare the winner of this competition.” She leaned over to kiss Gerhild’s cheek. “My just desserts, for suggesting this competition,” she finished in a whisper.

Apparently Nilsine hadn’t noticed Farkas’ odd behavior, but Gerhild didn’t enlighten her. In fact, she couldn’t find her voice to respond, and had to settle for forcing a smile onto her lips, one that never reached her eyes.

She followed Farkas out of the Hall, to the many disgruntled protests of the bards. She couldn’t blame them, considering they had worked so long and hard on their sonnets, and the very person they were trying to impress didn’t care to remain and listen. But if Vorstag was hurt, or…

Outside the cool mountain air was invigorating, making Gerhild remember that even in summer, Windhelm could still have snow. She walked beside Farkas, her legs hindered slightly by her skirts, but he obligingly slowed to match her pace. “So, what happened?”

“Oh, um,” he scratched at the back of his head, stalling for time, not sure what to say, or how to say it. Carefully he lowered his arm to look at her, taking in her wrinkled brow and flushed cheeks and slightly widened eyes. “I’d rather not say.”

“Farkas…” she moaned softly. “Is he hurt? Vorstag? Did he break something? Is he…” Stuhn’s Shield, she couldn’t bare to finish that thought. It was preposterous, anyway. Nothing fatal could have happened; there were precautions in place, rules, referees…

“No, well, nothing’s broken, but, oh, I wasn’t supposed to tell you anything, just get you to come. Vorstag didn’t want to bother you, but Vilkas told me to get you, and I listen to my brother more than Vorstag.” He shrugged.

Sometimes it seemed, for all his kindness and gentleness, talking with Farkas felt like talking to a tree trunk. A lovable, huggable tree trunk, but a tree trunk nonetheless. She bit her lip but kept quiet, saving her questions—and frustrations—for her husband. Obviously, he was alive, if he could tell others not to send for her. But what could have happened that he would wish to keep from her, she wondered.

They reached the area where tents had been set up for the more successful combatants, places where they could rest in private in between matches. She knew exactly where Vorstag would be, not only because Farkas made directly for his tent, but because Vilkas was pacing in front of it like a wolf guarding its den. He looked up as they approached, an expression on his face that was a mixture of relief and concern. He stepped away from the tent to meet them a little ways distant, his hand out as if he would stop her from reaching the tent. As if he could.

“Gerhild, wait a moment, I’d like to talk with you.”

“What happened?” she asked, feeling like her heart wanted to strangle her throat, barely able to force the words out. She slowed to ask, “Did Vorstag get hurt?”

“Aye, but… Wait, damn it!”

Gerhild paused long enough to hear Vilkas’ first word; after that she had brushed him aside and resumed her course for Vorstag’s tent.

Vilkas gave up cursing and jogged to keep pace with her. “Gerhild, he’s… you should wait… he didn’t want us to send for you…”

“If he’s hurt,” she spoke softly, but with a finality that would brook no argument, “I will see him.” She snapped aside the flap without giving any warning to whomever was inside.

“Shit,” Vilkas muttered, remaining outside. He could imagine the scene that was playing out inside the tent, though he couldn’t imagine who was going to be more pissed, Gerhild or Vorstag. He turned and slapped his brother on the back of his head, needing to vent some of his worry and concern. “I thought I told you not to tell her anything.”

“I didn’t,” Farkas defended himself, deciding not to slap his brother back. He was Harbinger, and they were in public, so it wouldn’t seem respectable. “She guessed it right away. And I couldn’t lie to her and tell her Vorstag was fine, could I?”

Vilkas gave him a look, but couldn’t find anything to argue with. Giving up, he settled for resuming his restless pacing.

Inside the tent, Gerhild had stopped cold. The interior was dark after the bright daylight outside, and her eyes needed a moment to adjust. She could see enough to tell the tent wasn’t large, hardly enough room for a cot and a three-legged stool, and barely tall enough to stand up straight.

Vorstag wasn’t standing up straight, however. He was bent over, his hands braced on his knees, as if he had just been trying to get up from the cot. He lifted his head as she entered, and his eyes saw her before she saw him. “Gerhild? Damn it!” he groaned. “I told them I was alright. I just need a minute.” He coughed, a strangled and out of breath sort of sound.

Her eyes finally adjusted to the dimness. She saw him duck his head, but not before she noted the bright redness to his face, and the wet streaks through the grime on his cheeks. “Vorstag?” she called softly, coming up beside him as if she was approaching a wounded bear. “What happened?”

“Argh,” he answered, embarrassment warring with pain. He sat down, very carefully and very gingerly, on the very edge of the cot. He took a few staggering deep breaths, but words failed him for the moment. Giving up trying to speak, at least just then, he gestured towards the stool. Gerhild looked and saw a towel was draped over it, rumpled and slightly dirty. She got it for him, trying not to admit to her anxieties while she placed the towel in his eager hand. He brought it to his face and wiped off more of the sweat and tears before he could answer. The words were muffled in the fabric of the towel, and she had to ask for him to repeat himself.

“I said,” he repeated, the towel dangling from one hand, “It was my stupid, fucking nickname!”

She tilted her head, trying to figure out what he could mean. She placed a cool hand on his sweaty shoulder, mindful of a bruise he’d gotten the day before, and asked, “You mean, ‘Arctic Stones’?”

“I’ve brought the ice,” a new voice called, and she turned to see Ralof enter the tent, a bucket under one arm. “Oh! Gerhild, ah, didn’t think you wanted to watch the competition.”

“Ralof…” Vorstag moaned, his eyes staring longingly at the bucket.

“Oh, right,” he walked up to the cot but held on to the bucket a moment longer, “Ya wanna do this here? I mean, now? In front of her?”

“She’s-my-wife-it’s-nothing-she-hasn’t-seen-before-now-give-me-the-ice!”

Ralof handed the bucket over without another word. Vorstag grabbed it in one hand and threw his towel on the cot beside him. He dumped the contents onto the towel with an eager look on his face, almost like a little boy opening a long-expected present. He folded the edges of the towel over the lumpy blocks of ice before tying the ends. Then he stood, as far as he was able, and dropped his leggings.

And his loincloth.

Vorstag held the sack of ice with both hands against his groin, giving a little gasp at the initial intense cold. Then he sighed and closed his eyes, sitting back down on the cot, his knees spread to give the icepack free access to his tender and bruised, er, flesh. Ralof cleared his throat, thinking to explain what happened to Gerhild, almost feeling her questions electrifying the air. “Ah, it was during his last match. Some guard out of Morthal. Hit him in the, ah…”

“Sweetmeats,” Vorstag supplied, at last able to talk clearly, the ice doing its thing. He opened his eyes and leaned backwards on the cot, his body finally able to relax and unbend. “After I knocked him down, I stepped back to give him some room, ya know, let him catch his breath and get his feet under him. Turned my back. Next thing I knew…” his words trailed off into a grimace.

“Part of the fence around the ring was loose. He’d grabbed a rail and swung it into Vorstag’s, um, sweetmeats, from behind. He didn’t go down, though, Vorstag, I mean. Kept his feet, continued fighting, grabbed the milk drinker when he made to swing at him again. Then, BOOM! Down goes milk drinker. Vorstag’s got a knee in his back and his arm on the edge of breaking. The asshole had to yield. It was a great finish!” Ralof’s voice had gotten more excited as he told the tale, but seeing her stern expression, he coughed and wrapped it up. “And then Vorstag calmly stood, like nothing was wrong, and made it back to his tent here before he, er…”

“Aye, say it,” Vorstag mumbled, too happy with the ice to be upset over his earlier display of emotion, “Before I broke down weeping.”

One delicate golden eyebrow rose up on her forehead as she stared at Ralof. “You mean, after he got hit in the ‘sweetmeats,’ he still finished the fight?” She rounded on Vorstag, her hands on her hips as if she was scolding an errant little boy. “You should have called the match right away. You might have been seriously injured.”

“It’s only a low blow,” he waved it off with one hand, the other holding the towel securely in place. “Easily fixed with some ice, see?” He almost pulled the pack away to show her, but quickly thought better of it. “Besides, I had my reputation to think of.”

She crossed her arms. “Is this the same ‘stupid, fucking’ reputation you were groaning about a few moments ago, Arctic Stones?”

Vorstag winced, though this time not from the bruising. He shouldn’t have mentioned that to Gerhild—she never seemed to understand about important matters—but he hadn’t been thinking clearly earlier due to the pain. “Aye, I know what you’re thinking, that it was foolish of me not to admit I was in pain in front of everyone. But please, my heart, try to understand, it wasn’t just me I was thinking about. Everyone knows I’m the husband of the Dragonborn. How would it look, if I called off a match after someone cheated against me, or if I broke into tears in public? I had to be strong. I had to be Arctic Stones. For your sake.”

That damnable eyebrow refused to descend. He decided to try distracting her. “Where’s Hamming?”

“He’s fine. He’s spending the day with Friga and her nurse,” she answered automatically, “And don’t change the subject…”

“Excuse me,” Vilkas called from outside the tent.

“Come,” Vorstag said in as strong and clear of a voice as he could manage.

Vilkas slipped inside quickly, not wanting anyone outside to catch a glimpse of Vorstag’s current state. The betting was getting furious and wildly speculative, especially after word was going around that Gerhild had come to see her husband. “The judges wanna know if you’re able to continue.”

“Aye.”

“No.”

The two answered in unison, with such certainty, that Vilkas and Ralof had to exchange a look. “I think we’ll wait outside,” Vilkas started. “I’ll let the judges know you’re still competing, for now.” He hastily added the last merely to placate Gerhild.

She didn’t wait for them to be alone, turning back to her husband before either escaped outside. “Vorstag,” she began, but he dropped his gaze away from her, checking to see how his recovery was coming along. She could still see enough of his face to make out that kicked-puppy expression, something she had never learned to steel her heart against. She sighed and knelt down beside him, one hand returning to his bruised shoulder. “Husband,” she tried again, “Do you want me to heal…”

“Nope,” he shook his head, putting the pack back in place. He sighed and closed his eyes, trying to get as much rest as he could before his next match. “Rules, ya know. No healing potions or spells while the competition is in progress.”

He’d explained the rules to her last night, after coming to their bed with a bloodied lip and bruised knuckles. Not everyone there had access to potions and spells, or the resources to buy them, so to keep the combatants on an even level, all healing aids were outlawed. It also meant that he couldn’t wear his modified codpiece, the one he’d been wearing during a fistfight with Rolff, the same fistfight that had earned him the ‘stupid, fucking’ nickname.

And now he was paying the price for it. She didn’t argue the point, but she did make her own moue. Her thin yet strong fingers reach out to brush a sweat-matted lock of hair back from his temple. “I don’t want you to suffer any permanent damage…”

He pulled away and pouted like a petulant boy, “I won’t.” When she grew quiet, he sighed and looked back up at her. As he feared, her deep blue eyes had become slightly watery, something he had never been able to steel his heart against. “I can do this, Gerhild. It hurt like Oblivion, aye, but the ice has taken care of that. I’ll be fine to finish. Besides, I’m your husband. Any man tough enough to marry the Dragonborn has to be able to handle a few dirty punches.”

She didn’t think his comment was either witty or charming. “Are you sure?” she asked, needing the affirmation.

“Aye, love,” his hand, chilled from the ice, came up to capture her chin and pull her down her for a brief kiss. “I’ll continue. I’ll even win.”

She leaned back, allowing him to remove the icepack and sit up. Encouraged by the ability to move without the aching throb, he pushed himself further to his feet. “You think you can?” she asked, keeping a watchful eye on him.

Vorstag laughed, heartily and a little overacted in case he could be heard outside. He had replaced his loincloth and was working on pulling up his leggings, “Sure. There’s just two more elimination rounds, then the championship. Now, if you could stay, keep the ice cold for me…”

She rolled her eyes as she stood up. “I thought you said no magic.”

“No healing magic,” he countered. “No one said anything about casting an ice spell.” He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “So, you’ll stay and watch me compete?”

“Aye,” she sighed, giving in, like always. “I suppose the nurse can continue to take care of Hamming a little longer.”

He smiled that big, toothy, shit-eating grin. “Let’s get going, then. Don’t wanna be disqualified because I was late for my next match.”

“Oh, no,” she deadpanned, “After all the trouble we’ve been through, we can’t let you forfeit simply for being a few seconds late.” In an undertone she was sure he would hear, she uttered, “Men!”

* * *

Benor leaned against the cold stone of the wall, a mug in his hand, a scowl on his face. He stared across the Hall at Vorstag and Gerhild, standing with their arms around each other, smiles on their faces, receiving congratulations from nobles and commoners alike. He hated it, but every so often a cheer was raised, “To Lord Vorstag! To Arctic Stones!” and he’d have to raise his cup along with everyone else and take a sip to the victor of the competition.

Or pretend to. His mug had been barely touched, the ale now stale and tepid. He knew he had to stand there, mouth the words, lift his mug, but he’d be damned before he would take a drop in honor of a cheater.

“Is the ale not to your liking?” a deep voice spoke from his side.

“The drink’s fine; it’s the toasting that I can’t stomach,” Benor groused, thinking it had been a servant who spoke. He looked up from his mug, intending to shoo the pest away, but instead of the livery of a servant, his eyes fell on a man wearing a rich mantle trimmed in bear fur. In a hurried and harried attempt to cover his slip, he added, “Er, your Majesty. I meant no offense…”

Ulfric didn’t smile, but one corner of his mouth twitched, hidden beneath his goatee. “No offense taken. I believe I can sympathize with your sentiments. It’s one thing to celebrate a victory,” he lifted his cup to his lips, pausing long enough to add, “It’s another to rub it in everyone’s face.”

“You, ah,” it was Benor’s turn to pause, a nervous tongue flicking out of his mouth to lick his lips. “You don’t think he should’ve won? Lord Vorstag.”

Ulfric took a deep breath, looking away from Benor and towards the happy couple. “Oh, I suppose it was a foregone conclusion that he would win. Husband of the Dragonborn and all. And the competition—indeed, all of this week’s festivities—have been held in his honor.”

Benor felt his gall rise up in the back of his throat. “Aye, a foregone conclusion,” he agreed, staring morosely into the murky ale. “Doesn’t make it a fair fight, does it?”

“You were expecting fairness?” Ulfric asked, making his voice sound mildly surprised.

“Isn’t it supposed to be fair? Or at least appear that way? Noble blood and all that…”

“Oh, Lord Vorstag isn’t a nobleman,” Ulfric added a little laugh, somewhat derisive sounding. “It wasn’t so long ago that he was nothing more than a sellsword, a mercenary, or… what was it he called himself?” he paused dramatically, stroking at his goatee, pretending to think. “Ah, that was it, a freelance adventurer for hire.” He looked back at Benor, saw the hateful glare in the man’s eyes, and pushed a little further. “He’s not a lord. No titles. No land. No Thaneship. He’s as much a lord as…” he glanced around, then pointed to a servant carrying around a pitcher of ale, “…as that man, there. No, his special treatment isn’t due to any noble blood, but whom he managed to bed.”

At the last part of that statement, Benor’s neck nearly snapped as he turned to stare at the High King. “You're jealous.  You’re in love with Lady Gerhild.”

“Keep your voice down!” Ulfric hissed, his eyes growing hard as he returned Benor’s stare. “Aye, I do love Gerhild, but not in the way you insinuate. She’s like a daughter to me, or a favorite niece; she is the daughter of two very dear friends of mine, and I took her as my ward when she first came to Skyrim, to Windhelm. I am merely concerned for her future and wellbeing,” he evaded. Another round of cheers went up, and he joined in, a false smile pulling at the hairs on his face. His voice seemed loudest as he proclaimed with the rest, “To Lord Vorstag! To Arctic Stones!”

Then, in a quiet aside, he whispered to Benor, “You forgot to toast.”

Benor belatedly lifted his mug, too distracted by Ulfric’s conversation. “You, ah,” he licked his lips again, “Excuse me, your Majesty, but you’re confusing me. What, exactly, are you saying?”

Ulfric took another deep breath, “I’m saying: I sympathize with your feelings towards Vorstag. You’ve been publicly humiliated by him, but you don’t know the half of it. Tell me, do you know the story of just how Vorstag got his nickname, Arctic Stones?”

“Aye,” Benor growled, “He was kicked in his groin during a fight. The other man broke his knee, but Vorstag kept his feet. Everyone started calling him Arctic Stones, thinking his balls had to be made of ice or something.”

Ulfric nodded, “That fight happened right here in Windhelm. The man who broke his knee is the brother of my housecarl. I learned afterwards, that Vorstag was wearing a special codpiece, beneath his leggings, that protected him from the front and the back.”

He paused, letting that sink in, letting Benor draw his own conclusions. He watched the process, slow but steady, as the other man plodded through to the logical conclusion. Working with—or rather, through—this dunderhead was time consuming, but he was confident it could be done.

“He… he was… he cheated!” This time it was Benor who hissed, gripping Ulfric’s arm with the intensity of his emotions. “No man can take a blow like that, no ordinary man. He must’ve been wearing that codpiece the other day. I know no one was allowed to wear armor—we all were searched. But I bet Vorstag wasn’t searched. No, not the honorable husband of the Dragonborn. He’d simply say he wasn’t wearing any armor, and the judges would believe him. Who’d question his word?”

“It does seem possible, even highly likely, doesn’t it,” Ulfric obliquely agreed, gently removing the grasping fingers. Then he heaved a melodramatic sigh, though Benor couldn’t tell. “Ah, but this is all speculation. Conjecture. We have no proof.”

“No proof,” he huffed in disgruntled agreement. “Aye, we’d need proof, before we could take this to the judges.”

“Why?” Ulfric hummed.

“Why what?” Benor struggled to keep up.

“Why take this to the judges? The competition is over; everyone’s leaving for home after tonight. There’s no point in proving his fraudulence if there’s no one around to witness it.”

Benor made a frustrated, disgusted sound in the back of his throat. “Bah, then why are we even having this conversation?”

“Because I need you,” Ulfric admitted, his tone dark and dangerous. “You’re unique, Benor. Insightful. You’ve seen something that most others haven’t; you’ve seen Vorstag for what he truly is.”

“Aye, I have,” he nodded, liking being complimented by the High King, “Vorstag’s a cheat.”

“More than that,” Ulfric prodded, but seeing Benor’s face scrunch up, the edges of his flat nose wrinkling, he knew he had to supply the rest. “You’ve seen his true character. He cheats during a fight, true, but he is also a manipulator. He’s pulled the wool over Gerhild’s eyes, charmed himself all the way into her bed. She believes he can do no wrong, and she won’t listen to reason. I’ve tried—tried to tell her what he’s done, how he’s used her, but she refuses to listen. She’s too far under his spell. Poor girl. I fear what might happen to her, if she remains within his power. He’s already forced her to give him a son, trying to keep her as his pet wife, rather than allowing her the freedom she needs.”

“Fucking bastard,” Benor groused into his mug. “He doesn’t deserve her. He doesn’t deserve to live!”

“That would be ideal,” Ulfric agreed.

Benor lifted his eyes up from his stale ale, an unholy gleam glowing in them from the chandelier light. “You… you mean… if Vorstag were to die…?”

“…Lady Gerhild would be free of his influence and corruption.”

“Just, ah,” he licked his lips, “Just suppose, there’s a man willing to do such a deed. How would I—he go about doing it?”

Ulfric relaxed his posture a little, knowing Benor would do as he was bid. “I know of a poison, very deadly in large enough doses, that can be easily masked in something like, say, mead.”

“Mead?”

Ulfric had lost him again. He suppressed the urge to sigh with frustration and started over, “Aye, mead. Listen, I know when they leave here, they will be returning to their house in Whiterun, Breezehome.” He paused to allow Benor to mouth the words and memorize the location. “They will be staying there at least until the end of summer. Now, Vorstag loves his mead, something that Gerhild does not share with him; she prefers wine. And there’s a meadery right outside the city, which I am sure Vorstag gets some of his mead from. If someone were to be working at that meadery, he could easily find out which casks of mead are meant for the Dragonborn’s home, open one up and add the poison…”

“Vorstag will drink it and die. And Gerhild won’t drink it, so she’ll live,” Benor finished. “Aye, I could do that. But, do you think he’ll drink enough of the mead for the poison to work?”

Ulfric gestured to the happy couple with his goblet. “Have you seen how much he can drink? That’s his fifth mug, and he’s not even swaying. No, friend, he’ll drink the whole cask, by himself, and the poison will do the rest.”

“And you need me to do this job for you. I imagine there would be a payment of some sort for my trouble.”

“You imagine correctly,” he agreed. “Let’s say, ten thousand septims.”

“Ten thousand…” the other whispered.

“You’ll be doing all of Skyrim a great service. We need her focused on the dragons and the Thalmor, not distracted by a husband and a baby.”

“Right, right…” Benor nodded, his voice trailing away. He wasn’t so concerned about Gerhild’s focus, as he was about the coin. With that much, he could retire and buy a little plot of land for himself, not up around Morthal, but someplace less swampy, like maybe Falkreath, perhaps. Yet he couldn’t help voicing one little nagging doubt, “What if I get caught?”

Don’t, Ulfric wanted to immediately reply, but suppressed the impulse. “No friend of mine has ever wasted away in jail,” he answered, “Or lost his head over a mere suspicion of guilt. I take care of my friends. And we are friends, Benor.” It was a lie; he’d never admit to suggesting anything to Benor, or offering a reward for the death of Vorstag. If the idiot got himself caught, he would deny any and all ties with him. And if Benor succeeded and came back for his reward, well, he’d be able to take care of the matter personally and quietly.

Benor’s thoughts were along similar lines, though with different conclusions. He felt sure he was safe, from any and all accusations, should things go wrong. The High King wouldn’t want himself associated with a failed assassination attempt on the husband of the Dragonborn. Ulfric would protect him, if he got caught. And the reward…

“I’ll get the poison from you in the morning, before we leave…”

“You’re not going with them to Whiterun,” Ulfric stated simply, ignoring the confused and frustrated look on Benor’s face. “It would look too suspicious, if you joined their entourage. Stay in Windhelm for a few days; allow them to reach Whiterun and get settled in before you arrive. Come see me the day after tomorrow; I’ll have the poison ready for you by then.”

“Aye, good thinking. The day after tomorrow, then.” Benor smiled crookedly and added, “Here’s to ten thousand septims—and the sake of Skyrim.” He lifted his mug and drained it in one go. Then he walked away, looking for a fresh mug.

Ulfric lifted his goblet and allowed the wine to pass his lips. It hadn't been quite as easy as he'd hoped, convincing Benor to do the deed, but it would be worth it. He gave the scapegoat one crooked smile before moving away.

He carefully made his way through the Hall, chatting with various nobles and jarls along the way. He had one more stop to make, one last conversation to hold, just in case Benor failed or got himself caught and tried to implicate him.

“Lady Gerhild,” he said, his voice strong and sure, “Lord Vorstag. I believe I have yet to offer my congratulations on your victory.” He held out his hand to Vorstag, and was hard pressed to hide the smirk when the sellsword eyed it suspiciously.

“Ah, thank you, your Majesty,” Vorstag took the offered hand, and offered praise, half expecting the grip to grow too tight or some other display of manly arrogance. Ulfric remained civil, however, even friendly, and Vorstag found himself grinning as they shook hands. He relaxed and decided to return the friendliness. “And thank you for the celebration. I know Gerhild didn’t want all this fuss…”

“Vorstag!” she scolded, feeling her cheeks grow flushed.

Ulfric laughed, a rich and warm sound, and utterly false. “It has been my pleasure. Besides, after all the hardship with the Civil War, followed by the threat of vampires, and Alduin still hanging over our heads,” he subtly dug at Gerhild, “I think it has been good, for all of Skyrim, to have something to celebrate.”

“Aye,” he smiled, looking at his wife. Gerhild smiled back just as warmly.

“And,” he continued, turning to look at her, “I think it has done wonders for you. I see it now, how happy he has made you. And I want you to know, I envy the both of you, and this new life—new love—you have together.” He bent over, presumably to kiss Gerhild’s cheek, but instead he whispered, “I wish you all the best, my dear.”

She was slightly confused, even a little flustered, over the tender display. “Thank you,” she said softly, not sure what else to say, “For everything.”

He smiled and lifted his goblet one more time. “To Lord Vorstag! To Lady Gerhild!”

He watched them over the rim of his glass as he drank, watched them look at each other, Vorstag’s wide smile and Gerhild’s timid blush, and laughed to himself. He was now above suspicion, after having so tenderly and sincerely—and publicly—wished them happiness in their marriage. Even if that ass got caught and talked his head off, no one would believe he had sent Benor to kill Vorstag.

And if Benor succeeded, if Vorstag died, Gerhild would undoubtedly turn to him, a loving father figure, for comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interestingly enough, there was supposed to be a scene way back in Heart of Frost, where Vorstag and Benor had a little fistfight. I could never get it to work, however, and had to drop it in favor of a fistfight between Vorstag and Rolff. I guess my subconscious knew it would fit in better, here.


	9. A Mother's Farewell

"Is everyone ready?" Gerhild held her dragonbone war axe in one hand, her shield in the other. Her dragonscale armor appeared unassuming in the daylight, a camouflage of grays and browns, yet the meekness was misleading. The plates were made of dragon scales, harder than any substance Eorlund had ever worked with, and—he assured her—fireproof. There were protective spikes on the shoulders and helmet, and the cuirass looked like a reinforced ribcage. As she had been warned, it was heavier than any other armor she had worn, but it would be worth it if it could stand up to a dragon. Today was to be the first test of that—capturing Odahviing, Alduin's lieutenant.

"That's a fine question to ask," grumbled Jarl Balgruuf, standing near the edge of the Great Porch with his sword drawn. His housecarl, Ilireth, was just in front of him, as if her thin body could protect him from a dragon's Thu'um. "I don't think anyone in their right mind is ever ready to pick a fight with a dragon."

Gerhild ignored his slight against her mental health. He wasn't the only one who thought her crazy for wanting to call a dragon. "You don't have to be here, Jarl…"

"Don't patronize me, young lady!" he snarled. "Thanks to you, I'm nothing more than a joke to the other Jarls. They all know Vignar holds the power here in Whiterun, and through him, Ulfric. But the citizens still look up to me; they still think I'm in command. It's for their sakes that I stand here today, with you, to face a dragon. And if it costs me life, what of it? At least I'll have died a worthy death—not wasting away as the puppet of a man who's nothing more than a murderer and usurper of the true High King!"

The words were treasonous, and as Ulfric's faithful champion Gerhild knew she should retaliate. Ilireth seemed to know this too, as she swiftly yet subtly changed her position, putting herself between her Jarl and the Dragonborn. Gerhild summoned her patience and decided not to make an issue of things, exchanging a brief nod with Ilireth to let her know things were alright. She could have put Balgruuf in his place—she could have told him how the other former Jarls were faring, under house arrest in the Blue Palace in Solitude, separated from their families and loved ones, never to see their homes again. She had thought she had been doing him a favor, finding a way for him to remain in Whiterun, but she could understand it now. His pride had been wounded, mortally wounded, and the wound had festered and turned poisonous.

There would be no reconciliation here.

"I'm ready to see a dragon," Farkas answered, sounding almost eager.

It was a simple comment, and it broke the tension, almost making Gerhild want to laugh. The one brother, Vilkas, was patrolling the city below, he and the other Companions taking on the task of making sure the citizens of Whiterun stayed safely out of the way. Farkas, however, had asked Gerhild if he could help with catching the dragon. It was something he'd always wanted to see, a dragon, up close. Well, maybe not always, but definitely something he'd wanted since the dragons started returning to Skyrim.

"Alright," she said, mentally shaking her head at Farkas' exuberance, "Remember the plan. I'll call the dragon, and when he gets close enough I'll use a Shout that will force him to land. Then, when he's grounded on the Porch, I'll lure him inside and into the trap. The rest of you should be relatively safe. I'm the one challenging him, so let him come after me. Do not get in between us," she looked directly at Vorstag. Though his heavier dragonplate helmet covered most of his face in the typical Nordic style, she could see enough to know he wore his stubborn, thin-lipped expression. Again, she decided against starting an argument. Somedays he was more trouble than help, but even if he did get bathed in fire, his new dragon-based armor would protect him. "Ready yourselves."

She turned away from the others, staring out over the plains and the distant mountains. Vorstag watched her take a deep breath and hold her shoulders back, a long familiar gesture. And then…

_"Mul Qah Diiv!"_

Farkas blinked and moved closer to Vorstag to whisper, "Was that it?"

"Not yet," he whispered back. "That was a Shout she uses to, well, increase her power as the Dragonborn. It makes her other Shouts more powerful, and adds an extra layer of protection, like magical armor."

Farkas looked back at her and saw that there was some sort of shimmering, half-faded armor superimposed over her dragonscale armor. It kind of looked like Vorstag's dragonplate armor was sitting on top of her armor, but with extra spikes and scales. And a lot of glowing colors. "Wow."

 _"Odahviing!"_ she Shouted next, the amplified power of her Thu'um rumbling out over the grasslands like thunder, climbing up the mountain passes like a backwards avalanche. Wherever this dragon, Odahviing, was hiding, he would have to hear her. It was only a matter of time, now, until he showed up.

After a tense minute, Farkas asked, "Do you think he heard her?"

Vorstag gave a nervous chuckle. "Aye, he heard. No way he couldn't have heard that."

"Every dragon heard that," Gerhild agreed, never taking her eyes off the skies. "Every dragon knows I just challenged Odahviing. And he'll have to answer, or admit cowardice."

"Oh," Farkas nodded, as if it made perfect sense. Then another thought came to him. "How far away do you think he is?"

"Oh, ah," Vorstag shrugged, "Hard to say, really. He could be up in that mountain there, or all the way in Solstheim."

"Just wondering how long we might have to wait. Say, how fast do dragons fly, anyway?"

"Fast enough," answered Gerhild. At the same moment, a supernatural roar ripped through the air, the unmistakable cry of a dragon. The timing was so close, Farkas started to wonder if Gerhild had a special trick or something that let her know when dragons were approaching. He'd have to remember to ask her later, however, as now was not the time.

"Where is it?" a guard asked, his voice breaking with nerves. He was standing at the low wall around the edge of the Great Porch, leaning out to try to catch the first glimpse of the dragon. "I… I don't… see it…"

"Get back!" Gerhild hissed, but it was too late. The dragon, Odahviing, came around from behind the keep, blindsiding them all. He flew with a single purpose, surprise on his side, and caught them all out of position. He banked across the front of the porch in an arrogant display, a few hastily drawn arrows bouncing harmlessly off his hide. All too quickly his mouth opened with anticipation. The guard managed to get a scream out before he was swept off his feet by a jagged maw and thrown into the air.

 _"Dovahkiin!"_ the dragon Shouted, his words full of his power, "I come to accept your challenge!" His wings thrashed the air, fighting to keep his massive body aloft, as he swung around the back of the keep and came at them again.

"Here I am!" she answered, striding forwards to the middle of the Porch where he could get a clear view of her, raising her dragonbone war axe high over her head.

Vorstag took half a step forward before he caught himself. She had to do this. She had to use herself as bait. He hated it, he feared for her, he wanted to take her place… but he knew she had to do this. And he knew she would be alright, as long as they stuck to the plan.

Someone forgot to tell Odahviing about the plan. He came back into view and without warning Shouted, _"Yol Toor Shul!"_ A jet of flame shot out of his mouth, searing a wide line across the Porch, directly over Gerhild. Ilireth was a little too close to the leading edge of flames and fell to the floor with a pain-filled cry, the fur lining of her armor on fire. Jarl Balgruuf dropped his shield and took hold of her with his freed hand, the other holding on to his sword, and dragged her back beneath the dubious shelter of the awning.

The flames slowly died, but Gerhild strode out of the fire, completely untouched. Odahviing saw and roared with frustration. Thinking he had somehow missed her, he turned back for another pass. Instead of sweeping onwards this time, he pulled up just short of the Porch and hovered, exposing his massive scaled torso.

_"Yol Toor Shul!"_

_"Joor Zah Frul!"_

Two Shouts rang out over the plains, their echoes warring with each other just as their originators warred. Odahviing's Thu'um showered more flames directly on her head, while Gerhild's Thu'um struck him squarely in the chest. She won, her Shout carrying with it an almost physical force, which wrapped around his body, entwining his wings and bringing him crashing to the ground at her feet.

"Treachery!" he cried, struggling to rise. "This is not a fair fight."

"I cannot fly as you can," she argued. "Now we are both grounded. Now we have equal footing."

"You are not my equal," he growled, snapping his jaws towards her.

Vorstag cursed and again had to fight the impulse to race to her side and knock her out of the way. He could see she was unharmed, dancing backwards out of Odahviing's reach, but damn that woman took too many chances. He spun the sword in his hand, testing its balance and resettling it.

"You're right," she agreed, her voice light and goodnatured, "I'm not your equal; I'm your better."

He roared again, wanting to rear on his hind legs and Shout, but his wings were still inhibited by her Shout. With no other option readily before him, he lumbered awkwardly forwards, chasing her deeper inside the Porch.

But not deep enough. Odahviing noticed the ceiling above him, the shadows to the sides of him, and he thought twice about following her. Vorstag didn't bother looking to Gerhild for a solution, already having made up his mind. "Come on," he nudged Farkas, "Let's harry him with our swords, urge him in further." Without waiting for a response, he raised his dragonbone sword and hefted his shield, crying out, "Dragonborn!" Farkas followed obediently, completely trusting that Vorstag knew what he was doing. Several of the Whiterun guards also drew their weapons, not sure what they were doing but following Vorstag's lead.

"Vorstag! No!" Gerhild cried, but her voice was lost within the cries of the others as they rushed the dragon from behind. Odahviing saw the movement and twisted his neck over his shoulder to see what was charging his backside. Immediately his eyes fell upon Vorstag, the only other figure to wear armor similar to the Dovahkiin's, armor made from his dead dragon brothers' bones and scales. It was a person affront, distasteful—after all, he didn't dress himself in the skins of the Dovahkiin's fellow mortals. Angered and disgusted and enraged, he shook off the last of the Dragonrend Shout, twisted and leaped in one fluid motion.

"Noooooooo!" she all but screamed, her Dragonborn powers forgotten in the heat of the moment. Odahviing had zeroed in on Vorstag and seized him in one hind claw just before he took to the skies once more, leaving behind the dragonbone sword. She raced, but knew there was no way to reach them in time. With anger and fear and dread she watched the dragon lift into the air, higher and higher, Vorstag dangling from his talons.

"I knew this _Joor_ would be important to you, Dovahkiin," Odahviing taunted her. Even though he was out of arrow range, his voice was easily heard, projected by his Thu'um. "He has your smell about him, and his smell is about you. I would hazard a guess that he is your mate, no?" He circled, lazily, watching her even as she watched him. "I wonder what you would do if I dropped him."

Gerhild didn't answer—at least, not in the way he expected. She had been watching him, studying him, learning his tells, how he moved just before he banked, and gauging his body mass. She saw her opportunity and drew her shoulders back to Shout, _"Joor Zah Frul!"_

Odahviing growled fiercely, but there was nothing he could do about it. Her Thu'um again wrapped around his body, stopping his wings, strangling his breath. He started to fall, plummeting down to Nirn, with just enough forward momentum that Gerhild knew he would land on the Porch, Vorstag still within his grasp. He tumbled and twisted through the air, and she held her breath, her gaze so hard and strong that it might have been purely her will alone that caused the dragon to hit first, Vorstag cushioned against his body.

The force of the landing jarred Odahviing's leg, freeing Vorstag to fly back into the air—dragonless this time. He did a lazy flip, head over heels, making a beautiful arc through the air, his heading straight for the edge. Again Gerhild screamed, adrenaline pulsing through her body as she leaped forwards, desperate to reach Vorstag before he reached the low wall around the Porch.

Vorstag was conscious, barely. The dragon's talons hadn't been able to penetrate his armor, but the sudden grab had knocked the air from his lungs. He'd barely managed to catch his breath before they were falling, tumbling towards the ground. He didn't register the landing, only that he was still falling, though free from the talons. The world spun across his vision, tilting into view before slipping away. He saw the dragon sprawled onto his back. He saw Gerhild reaching for him. He saw the low wall around the Porch and the city of Whiterun far below him. Then he saw nothing but sky. He was falling, falling and knowing there was nothing that could save him. In desperation he struggled, flailing his limbs without being able to gain any traction on the unhelpful air. The low wall came back into view, so tantalizingly close. The fingers of one gauntlet found it but only managed to scratch gouges in it as his weight and the weight of his armor pulled him away from safety.

By some miracle, though his sword had fallen from his grasp when Odahviing grabbed him, his shield had remained strapped to his arm. Even as his other hand slipped from the ledge, the bottom edge of the shield caught between a couple of the stones, a few feet down from the lip. His body fell against it, wedging it in tight, before he bounced off and fell away. He came to a jarring stop, his shoulder giving a pop as his fall was halted by his arm still strapped to the stuck shield. He let out a grunt for the pain, but at least he was no longer falling. Slightly bemused, not quite sure how he got where he was, he looked down at the city stretching below him.

"Vorstag!"

He knew that voice. He lifted his head up to see Gerhild, her face flushed and her eyes wide, her mouth still opened after her scream. He smiled at her, more like a grimace, and suggested, "Mind giving me a hand?"

Gerhild wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. She wanted to beat him senseless. She settled for reaching down her hand, though he was a little ways beyond her reach. "Take my hand."

"Can't," he grunted, not even bothering to try to lift his other arm. He was swaying slightly, hanging from his injured arm, and every movement was causing tearing pain to burst through his upper body. "Shoulder can't take the strain. You're gonna have to pull me up."

Gerhild looked like she was going to climb down to him freehanded. "I've got this," Farkas said from behind her, his meaty paw on her shoulder shoving her back from the wall. "You get the dragon."

She wanted to argue, Vorstag being more important to her than anything else right then, but she knew Farkas was right. Odahviing proved he could throw off her Thu'um, not right away, but if she didn't act quickly he would get free again. And though Vorstag also was in need of quick action, nearly anyone could pull him up—she was the only one who could handle the dragon. She nodded once to Farkas, gave Vorstag a last look, then turned back to face the dragon.

Odahviing was struggling to rise, using the backs of the talons of his wings to hobble forwards. "Dovahkiin…" he groaned, fighting against the Dragonrend Shout.

She gave him no more quarter. _"Gol Hah Dov!"_ she Shouted, bending his will to hers.

Odahviing howled, lifting his muzzle into the air, his wail filled with the power of his Thu'um, but his will was no match for hers. Like a kicked puppy he lowered his head and acknowledged her as the victor, submitting to her will.

"Inside," she commanded, pointing into the Porch where the trap lay waiting.

Odahviing tried. He tried and failed to throw off her power over him. His limbs seemed to have a will of their own as he obeyed, or rather his limbs belonged to her will, her Thu'um, her strength. He fought and snarled inside, while outside his body limped further into the shadowy Porch. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness, but it wasn't in time.

"Now!" she shouted, and the guards on the overhead walkway released their levers. A heavy yoke fell down, snapping securely around Odahviing's neck, the weight enough to pin him to the floor. He roared over the indignity, but he did not resist—he could not resist while her Thu'um was in effect.

Farkas had looped a rope around his waist and was hanging over the edge, three guards holding him fast so he wouldn't fall. He tied another rope around Vorstag, the other end of which had already been secured above them on the Porch. He yanked the shield free and ignored the strangled noises coming from his friend. "Alright. Pull us up."

Vorstag tried to bite off the curse as his shoulder was twisted even more out of position, knowing it had to be done. Then he was slowly rising up, dangling and twisting at the end of a rope. The weight of the shield continued to pull on his injured arm, and every so often he bumped into the side of the keep sending jarring pain through him, but at least he was alive and not splattered over the city below. He was only vaguely aware of Farkas and the guards hefting his limp body over the wall and settling him on the floor. They started to strip him, but he couldn't be made to care, barely able to manage breathing much less be concerned about his armor or weapons.

"Vorstag!"

Or his wife. He didn't know how long he'd been lying there, but Gerhild's hands on his cheeks brought him back from the blissful oblivion of unconsciousness. He opened his soft brown eyes and focused on her face. "Hello, my love. That was some adventure."

She choked back a sob, merely grateful that he was alive. She'd kill him later for scaring her like that. "You are such a Nord!" She had to take a few breaths herself before she could speak clearly and without cussing. "Are you hurt?"

"Shoulder…" he gestured with his uninjured arm. He didn't remember anyone removing the shield or the cuirass, but he was lying there in his under tunic, which Gerhild was carefully lifting out of her way. "Ah, what about the dragon?" he asked. He was only slightly interested in what had happened while he'd been hanging off the side of the keep, but he was more interested in distracting himself from the poking and prodding around his left shoulder.

"Odahviing is secure," she answered. She didn't look at him but lifted her eyes to Farkas. "His shoulder is dislocated. I'm gonna have to put it back before I can heal it."

"I can do that," Farkas shrugged, "Quick and easy. Done it lots of times. Pretty common injury, on the job."

"What about Ilireth?" Vorstag asked. He knew it was going to hurt like Oblivion to put his shoulder joint back into place, and he was trying to delay the inevitable. "She was burned. Might be in pretty rough shape…"

"She's already healed," Gerhild waved it aside, "And no one else was hurt badly enough to warrant my attention, except you. Now," she bent over him, brushing her lips lightly across his, as much as she could kiss him with her helmet still on, "Shut up, my love, and try not to move."

"Easy for you to…" his words broke off in a growl of pain. True to his word, Farkas quickly and easily popped his shoulder back into place. The next moment was lost within that coolness that could only mean a healing spell. He sighed and closed his eyes, letting his body go limp again, wanting nothing more than to lie there with Gerhild and rest.

Except they were surrounded by a score of guards, not to mention the captive dragon. He pushed aside the longing for rest and opened his eyes. "There, see? Good as new."

"You cocky, stubborn, stupid, fool-hearty…"

He sat up and stole a kiss from her lips this time. "I love you, too."

"Stuhn's Shield," she swore. Immediately it hit her: how Vorstag's shield had somehow miraculously become stuck in the stones…

Looking at his face, she saw he was having the same thought. He coughed, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Ah, perhaps we should go deal with the dragon now?"

Gerhild blinked at him. "Right. Odahviing. Forgot."

"You forgot about the dragon?" Farkas asked, helping Vorstag to his feet.

"Never mind," she muttered, feeling the heat flood her cheeks. Vorstag's chuckle did nothing to ease her discomfort.

They walked back underneath the awning, mindful of the dragon's irritatedly swishing tail. Farkas hadn't really had a chance to get a good look at him before, but he did now. "Shit!" he breathed, unable to peel his eyes away from the dragon. Odahviing was larger than he had imagined, colored dark and menacing, covered with spikes and sharp scales. He gave the beast a wide berth as they walked towards the head. Even though Odahviing showed signs of still being enthralled to Gerhild's will, he didn't want to take any chances.

"You alright?" Vorstag asked, shrugging back into his cuirass. A guard followed behind, carrying his helmet and shield and sword.

Farkas stopped to consider before answering. Capturing the dragon had been harder than he thought, full of danger and those strange Thu'ums and fire and Vorstag nearly falling to his death. He almost wished Gerhild had said no when he asked if he could help.

Almost.

"Ya know something?" he said at last, a strange expression on his face. "That was… fun!"

Vorstag stared at him for a moment. Then he laughed, feeling the same adrenaline bleeding from his veins that Farkas was feeling. The two men used what breath they had to chuckle, as they walked around the wide yoke and caught up with Gerhild.

She wisely ignored them. "Odahviing," she acknowledged the dragon, keeping the Thu'um from her voice.

"Dovahkiin," he answered. For a moment he snarled and snapped at her, or tried to, before her will vanquished his once more. "Ah… You are strong. Perhaps… strong enough to defeat Alduin…?"

"That's the idea," she said.

"And you wish to know where to find him, where he goes to garner his strength."

She nodded.

"He flies to the east, to a temple that used to belong to the Dragon Cult. Skuldafn, it is called. There he passes through a portal, into Sovngarde, where he feasts on the souls of your fellow mortals. That is where he goes to regain his strength. Ironic, is it not? Your strength comes from the souls of dragons, his from the souls of mortals."

"You're being awfully helpful," Farkas wondered.

Odahviing observed him with one eye. "She is Dovahkiin. If anyone can defeat Alduin, it will be her. Oh, there are those of us who are beginning to question Alduin's rule," he paused to laugh, "Though not openly, of course. I came here, not so much because Dovahkiin challenged me, as to test her Thu'um, to see if she could defeat Alduin."

"And…?" Vorstag asked, nervous about her fate and curious about Odahviing's opinion.

"Never mind that," Gerhild didn't want to hear what Odahviing would say, worried that praise would make her cocky, or criticism would give her self-doubt. "Where is this… Skuldafn?"

Odahviing hung his head a little sullenly, but he had to answer. "To the east. In the mountains. There is, ah, one thing I forgot to mention." He was beginning to fight off her influence. She made as if she was going to Shout again, and he quickly cowed. "One cannot reach Skuldafn without flying. There is no trail, no pass, no way to climb the steep cliffs. You want to go to Skuldafn, you need wings."

"We'll have wings," she countered. "Yours. You will fly us to Skuldafn, Vorstag and I, and in return I shall grant you your freedom."

Odahviing considered it. "Sounds reasonable. But he cannot come."

"What?!"

The dragon turned to stare at Vorstag after his outburst. "The portal into Sovngarde can only be passed by a Dovah. She is Dovah, or at least she has the soul of one, so she can use the portal. You cannot. No, mate of the Dovahkiin, there is only one way for you to enter Sovngarde." He bared his teeth menacingly.

Vorstag knew exactly what he meant, and began to reach for his sword before he remembered that it wasn't sheathed at his waist. Gerhild immediately moved to block him.

"Enough!" she spoke in a quiet roar, her voice empowered with her Thu'um. Odahviing cowered once more, but her hold over him wouldn't last for much longer. She could use her Shout again, but she didn't want to use it too often, not knowing if repeated use of the Shout on the same dragon would weaken the effects or strengthen them.

"Gerhild, listen, we've talked about this…"

Vorstag's protests fell on deaf ears, her mind fully occupied with an internal exploration. In taking the time to speak with Odahviing, she had discovered an enigma. There was something new inside her, something she had never experienced before. It was a strange sensation, something so different she could only describe it as neither Man nor Mer.

She struggled to understand it, this… other mind? Other thought? Other life? But she knew its origin didn't matter, not so much as what it was telling her. She stared at nothing while she listened to this other Gerhild, this other soul.

It gave her an awareness she could never have imagined. She was able to sense Odahviing on some deep level, as if the countless dragon souls within her were… speaking to her, speaking through some shared connection with her soul, giving her insight into the nature of a dragon. They told her of Odahviing's thoughts and emotions. It was almost palatable, like the color of a sound, or the smell of an emotion—his eagerness to stay within Alduin's good graces, his desperation to retain his lofty position over the other dragons, even his hope, however fragile, that she could defeat Alduin.

Most importantly, she knew exactly what he would do the moment he gained his freedom—and the thought chilled her. She looked at Odahviing, her deep violet eyes that old icy calm she had once lived within. He avoided her gaze, confirming her suspicions.

"Send for Hamming."

The quiet command caught Vorstag off guard, silencing his protests. He stared at her, but she was in profile, her focus still on the dragon. He tried calling her name, but she didn't answer. He had to grip her shoulder and spin her away from the dragon before she acknowledged him. "What did you say?"

Gerhild blinked at him, and seemed to come back to herself. "Send for Hamming," she repeated, her voice stronger. Then she turned away again. "Odahviing, you will carry myself, my mate and our child to High Hrothgar. There they will disembark, while you and I will continue to Skuldafn."

"No," Vorstag protested, not liking what he was hearing. "High Hrothgar? Why would we go there without you? I don't understand…"

"Listen," she said, grasping his shoulder, holding his gaze steadily. "I… I can't explain it, but I know. Don't ask me how, but I know what Odahviing will do. As soon as I release him from my will, he will come back here and kill you and our son."

"It is probably true," Odahviing heard himself adding, although somewhat reluctantly. "Killing Dovahkiin would be preferable, but I cannot do that; her will is too strong. Killing her mate and offspring would be almost as good. Alduin would reward me for such an act."

"You'd… you'd do that, after she grants you your freedom?" Vorstag's voice was incredulous. "What if we simply kill you once you bring us to Skuldafn?"

"Vorstag," she gently reminded him, "I've already promised him his freedom. I've given my word."

He was not willing to give up just yet. "Well, what if she defeats Alduin? What if she's the victor, and comes back to find out you've killed me and our son," Vorstag blustered, shoving aside Gerhild's hand and stepping around her to face the dragon. "You'll have to contend with her wrath, then. Would you dare take that chance?"

"That is a very big if," Odahviing countered.

"Enough!" Gerhild stepped between them again, a hand on Vorstag's chest making him take a few steps backwards. "Listen, my love, listen to me. I have to go to Sovngarde to defeat Alduin, and as soon as I am gone Odahviing will hunt you down and kill you. You know this is what he would do; you've heard him admit it. I cannot bear to have that happen. I have to make sure you and Hamming will be safe."

"The Companions could keep them safe," Farkas offered.

She smiled at him a little sadly. "Thank you, Farkas, but no. Odahviing might raze Whiterun to the ground in his efforts to kill Vorstag and Hamming if I left them anywhere near here. I cannot take that chance." She turned back to Vorstag. "High Hrothgar is the only safe place for you two."

His thin lips grew thinner, his soft eyes softer. "Not again," he moaned. He hated this, hated her fate, how she always seemed to face it alone. Alduin. Harkon. Miraak. Even going back so far as Madanach, the King in Rags, the deranged leader of the Forsworn—she had sent Vorstag away before the confrontation. Of course, that was because she had to get arrested and thrown into Cidhna Mine to get her hands on Madanach, and she knew how he felt about imprisonment.

"Listen, my love," she cupped his face, sensing weakness in his hesitation. "I have to leave and face Alduin; that's always been my fate, not yours. Please, come to High Hrothgar where Paarthurnax can protect you. When I'm finished, I promise I'll come back to you there, at the Throat of the World. Be my anchor on Nirn. My north-pole-star. Guide me home when I'm done."

He was caving in. "I'm supposed to be going with you…"

"You are" she whispered, "You and Hamming are with me, in my heart."

He pressed his forehead against her helmeted head, gripping her hands fiercely and holding them between their chests, their hearts. "Forever and always," he completed the inscription inside their wedding bands.

The kiss they shared was awkward, hindered by her helmet and the situation, not nearly as passionate nor as satisfying as they could have wanted. Then they stood there for a moment, holding on to each other, storing up every possible moment in case…

"Hamming's here," Farkas interrupted. "I, ah, sent someone for him, soon as you said."

She didn't want to, but she answered anyway. "Thank you, Farkas. Let me hold him a moment." She took Hamming into her arms, mindful of her armor, and looked fully into his eyes. They had remained dark, even though Hamming was just over three months old, hovering somewhere between black and deepest violet. Hamming stared back at her, serious and sober, as if he understood what was happening. Or maybe the strangeness of the armor gave him cause for concern, seeing his mother's face being swallowed within a helmet made from dragons' remains. Either way, he neither fussed nor smiled, but solemnly held her eyes and waited.

"I love you, Hamming."

Vorstag had finished replacing his armor and weapons while she had been saying goodbye to her son. He held his hands out, and she reluctantly passed Hamming back to him and helped secure the sling around his shoulders.

"Your kin is your weakness," Odahviing gloated.

"They are my strength," she argued calmly, turning back to face him. "I will defeat Alduin, because they need me to. _Gol Hah Dov!_ "

Odahviing stopped trying to fight her will, succumbing quickly and meekly. He would obey her, at least until after they dropped Vorstag and Hamming at High Hrothgar.

"Release the dragon," she shouted to the men on the overhanging walkway.

"Do it," Jarl Balgruuf added his authority, such as it was, to hers. He watched them, the dragon crawling awkwardly towards the edge of the Great Porch, Gerhild repeating their bargain one last time before mounting, Vorstag with the babe climbing up behind her. With a mighty roar the dragon beat his wings, leaping over the edge of the Porch, launching himself into the air.

"Now you will see the world as only a Dovah can!"

Jarl Balgruuf shook his head, but mumbled quietly, even if a little sullenly, "Talos guide you, insolent girl."

* * *

Everyone took notice of the dragon that day, but three people were of particular note. One was a ragged and surly Altmer, begging just outside the city gates. He stared at the dragon flying away, two tiny figures perched on its back, and mumbled, "Damn. Not today…"

Another was a dark figure crouched within the shadows behind Breezehome. A muttered, "Damn, not tonight…" was barely heard over the creak of leather armor before it disappeared.

The third was a flat-nosed, flat-eyed Nord working at Honningbrew Meadery, currently standing outside with the other employees. They had all been too curious about the dragon and the Dragonborn's plans to do any serious work today. He lifted his face up with everyone else as the dragon flew off. "About fucking time," Benor groused.

"What was that?" another worker asked.

"I said," Benor kicked his brain into gear, thinking quickly, "About time. I've got a delivery to make into the city, but the guards weren't allowing anyone through the gates until after the dragon business was finished. Should be able to get inside now."

"Where to?" the other asked. "What's the delivery?"

"Oh, ah," he thought about lying, but there wasn't any point. It wasn't like he was going to stick around to watch it happen. "Got a small keg, just for Lord Vorstag. Guess it's a special batch of mead or something, to celebrate their victory over Alduin. Supposed to have it there and waiting for them when they get back."

The other worker laughed, "That's optimism for ya. I think you've got time, though. Looks like the dragon's going to the Throat of the World, first."

Benor turned, his neck craning, but his eyesight wasn't that good. "Whatever. The sooner I make the delivery, the sooner I'm off for the day. And the Bannered Mare is just down the street…"

The other worker laughed and slapped him on the back of his shoulder. "I hear ya, friend. Save a round for me, would you? I can't get off work until I get another hundred bottles filled."

"I'll save you a seat," Benor lied. "Well, I should get going. See ya later." He turned without waiting for the other to answer, his mind already three steps ahead. There was a small keg he had set aside, about twice the size of a man's head, just about right for Vorstag. All he had to do was open it, dump the poison inside, reseal it, and drop it off at Breezehome 'For Lord Vorstag.' Then leave. He'd be long gone by the time Gerhild and Vorstag returned.

By the time Vorstag drank himself to death.

He was in an exceptionally good mood by the time he reached the city gates, whistling through his teeth as he nodded to the guards and answered their challenge with, "A special keg of mead for when Lord Vorstag returns." They immediately opened the gates for him; Vorstag's thirst for mead was well known.

He hefted the keg to the other shoulder as he sauntered down the street, smiling and nodding to those he met. Aye, today was a beautiful day. He climbed the steps to the door of Breezehome and knocked.

The vision of beauty that opened the door took his breath away.

"Can I help you?" Lydia asked suspiciously.

"Oh, right," Benor cleared his throat. "I'm from Honningbrew Meadery. Got a keg here just for Lord Vorstag. My master said it was a special brew, something to celebrate their victory over Alduin. He wanted to make sure it was here before Lord Vorstag and Lady Gerhild returned."

"I'll take it," she held out her hands.

Benor paused before passing it over. "This keg is for Lord Vorstag alone. My master wants his opinion on it, before he makes a larger batch for bottling…"

"I'll pass the message along with the mead. I'm sure Lord Vorstag will be happy to give his opinion," she agreed, feeling her own mouth water, wishing she had an excuse to sample the mead herself. She grunted a little beneath the weight of the small keg. "On behalf of Lord Vorstag and Lady Gerhild, allow me to offer their gratitude to Mallus Maccius for this fine gift."

"Oh, ah, the honor is all his. Good day, or I should say good evening, Lady…"

"Lydia," she blushed a little beneath her rouge, "Just Lydia, housecarl to Lady Gerhild."

Benor whistled again, "Housecarl to the Dragonborn, you mean. That's a fine title to have," he leaned towards her and winked, "Lydia."

He bowed and left her sputtering on the steps, walking down the street back towards the city gates.

Lydia gave up trying to force a flustered answer from her lips, as the gentleman was already gone. Her arms full of the small keg, she had to close the door with the heel of her boot. She walked over to the table and set the keg down, sighing once she was relieved of the weight. She gave it one last longing look before turning away to start fixing supper.

She was just putting the finishing touches on the venison stew when the door opened. Rhiada was the first inside, a smile breaking open her face. Lydia immediately stood, hope filling her chest, as she asked, "Steward Rhiada, how is everything with your son today?"

"See for yourself," she beamed, stepping aside. Argis' frame filled the doorway, giving some clue as to how he got the nickname Bulwark. In his arms clung a very happy, though very shy little boy.

"Who is this handsome young man?" Lydia called out, playing along. "Is that… Maniel? All healthy and strong?"

He tilted his head full of light brown hair just far enough to peek at her with wide hazel eyes, and nodded. Then he giggled and turned his face back, tucking his head under Argis' chin and clutching his shoulders tightly.

They all laughed at the little boy's flirtatious reaction.

"I'm so happy for you," Lydia embraced Rhiada.

"Oh, he's not cured," Rhiada clarified as Argis closed the door and set the boy on his feet. Maniel continued to cling tightly to Argis, the only man he'd ever known as Papa, though he did eye the stew hungrily.

"But he looks so healthy," Lydia said.

"Yes, he's healthy, for now," Rhiada answered quietly, "But his lungs are still weak. Danica says he will continue to have this problem for the rest of his life, but she's found ways to ease the symptoms. When he starts having troubles breathing, there are herbs we can steam that will help. And there's a potion she wants us to try; she's going to work with Arcadia on it tomorrow, and have a recipe for it we can bring back to Markarth with us."

"Still, that's reason enough to celebrate!" Lydia proclaimed. "How about we open a cask of mead?"

"I'll second that," Argis licked his lips eagerly.

"Do we have any?" Rhiada asked. "I thought Lord Vorstag finished off the last cask yesterday…"

"One was just delivered," Lydia gestured to the small keg already sitting on the table. Aye, she knew it was for Lord Vorstag alone, but it would be a few days before they returned, she was sure—plenty of time for her to go down to Honningbrew Meadery, explain that there was a mix-up and the cask was opened by accident, get a replacement, there had to be more made than just one cask's worth…

"Oh, fine, but just a small cup for me," Rhiada gave in, more from the look of longing on Argis' face than for any other reason. "And after supper. I'll not have both of Lady Gerhild's housecarls shit-faced even if she isn't here to see it."

Supper that night was festive, the three adults singing—somewhat off-key—to whatever tavern song suited their fancy. Rhiada held Maniel on her lap the whole time, so thankful to have her little boy returned to her. Even if he wasn't cured, at least he had a chance now to have a normal life and not be afraid of every little draft or rain shower. As they sat, she watched Lydia and Argis grow deeper into their cups, their laughter turning silly and their speech less coherent.

"Oh, enough of this," she announced. "I'm taking Maniel to bed. The two of you can, well, finish this, whatever it is, enjoy yourselves, I don't care. But you both are cleaning this up, first thing in the morning, I don't care how hungover you are!"

"Yesh, Mishtresh Rhiadaaaaahhh…" Argis bowed so low he almost fell off the bench.

Lydia giggled, "You sound like Vorshtag. Look like him, too."

Argis giggled back, "You just said Vorshtag."

"I did not."

"Did too!"

"Good night!" Rhiada pushed away from the table and stood up. "Come on, Maniel, you don't need to see your Papa like this."

"Nigh' nigh', Papa," Maniel waved, over his mother's shoulder as she headed for the stairs.

"Nigh' nigh', son! Sleep tight! Don't let the skeevers bite!"

"Argis!" Rhiada scolded, her voice floating down the steps.

Argis and Lydia laughed loudly.

When the laughter died down, he asked, "Is there any more left?"

Lydia tipped the keg far enough to peer over the lip. "Mebbe one or two more swallows, each." She lifted the keg, wobbled a little, managed to make contact with her lips, and then tipped it back. She swallowed twice before setting it back down on the table, her mouth following so she wouldn't spill. "Ress is yourssss…"

Argis grunted pleasantly and, not wanting to be outdone, took up the keg in one hand. His biceps flexed admirably as he fairly steadily brought the keg to his lips as if it were merely an over-sized mug. He finished it off in one very long and very large swallow, smacked his lips appreciatively, and set it back down before giving vent to a thunderous belch.

"My compliments to the cook!"

"Thank you!" she answered with equal fervor, blushing. "Ya know, I've been wondering, how did you and Vorstag come to have the same tattoos? And don't say it was because you were sellswords together. That story doesn't hold water!"

"It's true," he pouted, thinking he had to be drunk if he was about to admit to what he thought he was about to admit to—or something like that. "We were sellswords together, when Vorstag as about, oh, sixteen, I think? Anyway, we were hired by this merchant, who was traveling to Riften. Once we got there, we took our pay and spent a month getting drunk and picking fights, ya know, blowing off steam, like any two typical young Nords. One night, we had a chance to try skooma," he leaned over the table to whisper, "Wouldn't recommend it. Woke up the next morning wearing nothing but these matching tattoos."

Lydia lost it. She giggled. She giggled so hard she fell off her bench. She giggled so hard she couldn't stop. Argis joined in, his giggle out of place on his muscular frame and scarred face.

Again, it seemed to take hours before the laughter died down, their moods so buoyant now that they were no longer weighed down with worry over Maniel. But eventually they had to stop and catch their breath. She looked up at him from the floor and asked, "What were we laughing about?"

"No idea," he shook his head. "But I think it's time for bed." He pushed himself to his feet. Immediately his head began to pound, his heart to race, as he fought to keep his feet beneath him.

"I think you're right," Lydia groaned as she struggled to rise, gripping onto the bench in an effort to stand.

"I think I drank too much," Argis moaned. He pushed away from the table and towards the stairs, hoping his aim was true. He made it, sort of, catching the outer edge of a step before losing his balance and falling half onto the floor, half onto the stairs. He managed to hit three more steps as he collapsed before he came to a stop at the landing.

"I think you're right," Lydia had managed to make it to her knees. She glanced over her shoulder at Argis, lying on the floor, dead to the world. "Again. I, ah," she thought about the stairs, the lack of a railing, how much Argis must weigh, and made up her mind, "I'll just get you a blanket. Let you sleep it off there."

She tried. She honestly tried to walk, to reach her room. She had been sleeping in the closet downstairs, allowing Rhiada and Argis to use the upstairs bedchambers for themselves and Maniel, Vorstag and Gerhild staying in Dragonsreach while they made preparations for catching the dragon. Lydia gave it one final go, lunged slightly off-center of forwards, hit the support beam for the stairs, bounced off and landed against the dresser on the far wall. Immediately she crumpled to the floor, out cold.

A lantern had been sitting on top of the dresser, its flame burning brightly. The shaking of the dresser knocked it off, sending it crashing to the floor, bursting open the glass holding flame and oil separate. The little flame, hungry for more fuel, took to the kerosene, consuming it even as the flammable liquid spread itself over the dry, thirsty wood of the floor.

Rhiada had been tired, worn out from worry and stress and now relief. She had fallen asleep the moment her head hit the pillow, Maniel cradled in her arms. She and Argis had already made sleeping arrangements, in accordance with their atypical marriage, she and her son in the master bedchamber while he took Lydia's room. She was so exhausted she didn't hear the laughter and the banter, or the crashing and breaking of glass.

Always a mother first, what woke her up was the soft and pitiable sound of her son coughing.

"…Manny…?"

He was only a little bit awake, his eyes dark and glistening in the light. Right away she realized there was more light than there should be. And smoke, coming in from beneath the door.

"Maniel!" she said, her voice tight, trying to stay calm so as not to scare her son, while wanting to give in to the fear and scream her head off. "Maniel, come with me. Come on. We have to get out of here. Now."

"Yes, Mama," he mumbled, coughed, but took her hand.

Rhiada didn't take the time to let him walk, picking him up almost before she yanked the door open. Quickly she held his head, keeping him from seeing the fire eating the entire back wall. "Argis!"

She had to risk approaching the flames, Maniel held tightly against her chest, to reach the door to his room. She opened it, wincing at the heat, but found the room empty. "Argis!"

"Papa!" Maniel added his voice to hers. He had managed to move his face around to where he could see the source of all the heat and noise and smoke.

"It's alright, Manny," Rhiada clutched him tighter to her bosom, her fingers almost gripping his soft brown hair, staring in consternation at the empty room. "It's alright. I'll get you outside, and then Papa. It'll be alright."

She could see there was no one else upstairs but them. Giving up looking for Argis, at least until she got Maniel outside the burning house, she started down the stairs.

The smoke was less, though the heat and light increased. Still Rhiada all but tripped over Argis' inert form lying at the foot of the stairs. She cursed inside her head, knowing there was no way she could carry both her son and her husband.

Nor could she leave him to die.

"Manny," she set her son down on the floor. "Manny, I want you to go to the door and open it, alright? Papa and I will be right behind you. I promise. Go open the door, and go outside."

The little boy nodded and scampered off, eager to leave the scary noises and hurtful heat and suffocating smoke behind him. Yet he paused as he reached the door, his pudgy little hands on the latch. He looked over his shoulder at his Mama, struggling to drag his Papa across the floor. He didn't want to leave them. "Mama! Papa!"

"Open the door!" she moaned, straining against Argis weight.

Maniel did as he was told. The portal opened wide, allowing fresh air to rush inside the house, inadvertently feeding the oxygen-starved flames. The fire renewed itself, bursting upwards with new speed, hungry to devour the ceiling and the top of the stairs.

Two little hands joined Rhiada's on Argis' arm, strong enough to lift his hand off the floor, though not doing much to help drag him. Rhiada smiled sadly, and with a strength she never knew she had, she heaved even harder and finally reached the doorway.

The three of them tumbled down the steps in an ungraceful mess of limbs. Rhiada was sure her shift had flown up over her head and exposed everything to view, but she didn't care. She took the time to make sure Argis and Maniel were far enough away from the house. Argis wasn't awake, a large cut oozing blood surrounded by a growing lump was on his forehead, but at least he was breathing. Maniel was kneeling beside them, coughing but breathing, his eyes wide and his cheeks flushed. She brushed his hair back behind one ear before looking up and down the street. No one was there yet, though she was sure the guards would take notice of the fire fairly quickly. Looking over her shoulder, she didn't think it would be quick enough for Lydia's sake.

She didn't know if she had the courage to run back inside; she only knew she couldn't live with herself if she didn't at least try.

"Manny," she cupped her son's face in her hands, "Manny, listen to me. I want you to stay with Papa. Do you understand? Do not leave his side. Promise me, Manny. Whatever happens, stay with Papa."

He nodded, tears beginning to shine the moonlight in his eyes. "I promise."

"You're a good boy," she kissed his forehead. "I love you, Maniel."

Then she was gone.


	10. Guide Me Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back from vacation, feeling refreshed and inspired! I'm gonna do a chapter or two for my other stories, before coming back to focus mostly on this one, but here's a nice little smutty chapter to tide you over.

Vorstag was still wearing his dragonplate armor, though he had at least removed his helmet and gauntlets and weapons. He sat leaning backwards on the bed he'd been given in High Hrothgar, his face flickering between being deeply troubled and pleasantly amazed. Hamming was sitting up—somewhat—on his lap supported by his hands. The babe was calm, either unconcerned over the strange new armor or used to it, and his attitude reassured his father.

So did his smiles. Hamming was making faces at him, tucking in his chin and attempting a fair imitation of Vorstag's shit-eating grin, though toothless, while moving his fists around in chaotic circles. Every time Vorstag's gaze focused on his son he would smile back—it was almost impossible not to, despite his heart being heavy with worry and angst. Then his eyes would falter, his thoughts return to his love, and his expression grow worried.

He didn't think it was fair. No matter how many times they parted, it always seemed harder for him. Gerhild—wherever she was and whatever danger she was facing—at least was keeping busy, her time filled probably to overflowing. Undoubtedly she had no idle moments, no time to sit and wonder and worry, no seemingly infinite amount of waiting. She would be traveling, planning, plotting, battling, winning—please, Stuhn, let her win. He on the other hand, had nothing to occupy his time but to sit there and wait, twiddling his thumbs, minding the babe, all the while never knowing what was happening.

Had she already reached Sovngarde?

How long would it take to find Alduin?

How long would they fight?

Did time have any meaning in Sovngarde?

The knock on his door made him jump, startling him from his brown study. He didn't immediately assume it had anything to do with Gerhild; the Greybeards had left him alone for the most part, only coming to his room when it was time to summon him to dine. Indeed, his stomach chose that moment to make a small rumble; so it was with very little concern that he looked up from Hamming and called out, "Come."

He had hoped to see Arngeir, the only one with whom he could speak, opening his door. Instead, one of the non-talking Greybeards was standing there; Vorstag could never remember their names as they never spoke to him. He stifled his frustration and disappointment and smiled pleasantly. "Aye, is it suppertime already?" he asked, hoping the man could somehow answer yes or no without speaking in Thu'ums and knocking Vorstag on his ass.

The Greybeard did answer, though not in the way expected. He made an inviting motion with his hand, beckoning Vorstag towards him, a smile peeking out from beneath his massive bearded chin.

"You want me to come with you?"

He nodded, gesturing to them both with each hand, his movements turning hasty and excited.

"Both of us?" The only reason to summon both himself and his son in such a hasty manner would be if Gerhild was returning. Now Vorstag allowed his heart to do a little flop, hope making him want to jump to his feet and race out of there. He didn't, trying to act dignified, as the husband of the Dragonborn should act. He stood slowly, his movements deliberate, taking his time to make sure Hamming was warmly bundled against the cold before turning to face the Greybeard. "Lead on."

In silence they left the ancient keep for the chilly courtyard beyond.

He was glad he had wrapped Hamming so securely. Outside the air was bitingly cold, nothing of concern for a Nord certainly, but Vorstag always preferred a warm fire and a stiff drink to the frost and freeze of the outdoors. He shivered and allowed himself a brief moment of regret over not wearing his helmet or gauntlets, his long brown hair whipping around his face, buffeted on all sides by a wind that twisted and twirled around the mountain. Then he looked around.

He didn't know what to expect, first looking to the archway over the start of the trail that led to the top of the mountain. No one was there, but before he could feel disappointment over Gerhild's absence, a supernatural roar echoed through the air above him. He lifted his face to the sky, and his jaw dropped to the hard-packed snow.

The top of the mountain, the very Throat of the World, was usually covered in clouds and snow. It was visible today, or at least more visible, the clouds blasted out of the way by the downbeat of wings of countless dragons.

"Stuhn's Shield," he breathed. He didn't know, he couldn't tell at first, whether to be alarmed or elated. He stared closely, nervously, his mouth filling with saliva and fear. Yet the longer he stared, the more he could see: the dragons were simply circling above him and didn't seem to be in any sort of attack pattern. He began to relax, even got himself to where he could close his mouth and swallow down some of the apprehension. The sight above his head continued to cause him to stare, trying to take it all in, instinctively knowing that this day was important. This day was historic. This day would make a legend.

There was a flash of light and pure Power from the very top of the mountain. The gathered dragons roared, crying out in awe, belching flame and wind and ice, proclaiming her the victor even before she spoke.

"I AM DOVAHKIIN!"

Vorstag heard Gerhild—he was sure all of Nirn had heard her—and his heart gave another jump for joy. "She won," he whispered. Barely able to pull his eyes away from the display overhead, he lifted Hamming higher and turned him so he could see, whether or not he could make any sense of it. "Your Mother's won! She's defeated Alduin!"

"But… at what cost?" Master Arngeir's voice was thick with sadness as he came up beside Vorstag. "Dovahkiin has taken that which cannot be taken. She has destroyed the eternal. She has killed the immortal."

"And she's saved your skinny ass," Vorstag countered, though under his breath, not wishing to upset the old man. He was a guest, after all, and an uninvited one, dropped off suddenly by a hostile dragon without explanation or even a change of clothing.

"Yet perhaps that was ever her fate," sighed Arngeir. Apparently he hadn't heard Vorstag's comment. "Alduin was misusing his power, wielding his Thu'um in a purpose for which it was not meant. Perhaps, that is why there was one Last Dragonborn, to also disregard the proper Way of the Voice, so she could use her Thu'um in the same manner as Alduin—and save the world." He turned towards Vorstag. "I'll leave you to wait for her. The rest of us will be inside, preparing supper."

He nodded, feeling only a little guilty for thinking so poorly of Arngeir only a moment before—but Arngeir did say he regretted Alduin's death. Looking upwards again, he wondered if the dragons were regretting Alduin's death, or celebrating it.

It wasn't much longer before the dragons began peeling away from the mountain to fly off, disappearing into the distant horizons, their cries fading into the ether. At long last the skies grew quiet, of all but the constant wind. Vorstag didn't move to go back inside, knowing she'd be coming down the mountain, coming back to him. He jealously counted each moment longer they had to remain apart, wanting the separation over, needing her once more by his side. This time, never to part!

After a few more moments he heard her Shout—such a minimal thing compared to her triumphant proclamation earlier—some Thu'um that pushed back the weather. He waited, barely patient, bouncing Hamming in his arms, his eyes eagerly delving through the swirling snow to catch the first sight of…

"Gerhild!"

"Vorstag!" she acknowledged, hardly more than a shadowy form emerging from the white. Then she was running, stripping her helmet from her head before she crossed the arch at the beginning of the trail. He was running, too, though aware enough to carefully cradle Hamming. When they came together it was with a clash of dragon armor, and a happy-sounding squeal from Hamming. Holding the babe to one side, his other arm clamped down on her and held her fast. His warm lips pressed into her chilled flesh, somehow finding her nose instead of her mouth.

She laughed, too elated and exhausted and relieved to protest, and tilted her head to kiss him back.

She couldn't have said how long they stood there, but another happy squeal from Hamming reminded her that they weren't alone. She pulled back as far as Vorstag would allow, and smiled at her son. "Hamming! Oh, I've missed you. Have you been a good boy for your Papa?"

"He's been fine," Vorstag answered, letting her take Hamming from his arms. He bent and picked up her helmet, still trying to hold on to her waist, as they walked back towards the temple. "Hardly ever fussed, except at mealtimes."

"Aye, well, you know growing boys. Oh, Vorstag," she sighed, tears suddenly filling her eyes. Her steps faltered, her free hand groped at his chest, her words flung from her mouth like the dragons from the mountain just a few moments before. "It's over. It's done. It's all done. It's finally finished…"

"I know, love," he kissed her hair, settling the hysteria before it could take hold, "I know. We saw the dragons from here, circling and Shouting. Were they talking?" Questions always seemed to help her hysterics, getting her to speak coherently, to have to think before she answered.

"They were… lamenting Alduin's death," she answered, sniffling away the tears, getting her emotions back under control. Vorstag was sure there were more tears coming, as well as other emotions, but he would weather those storms as they came. "That part was eery, their keening, even for a dragon most of them feared. And then Paarthurnax…" she glanced over her shoulder at the sky one last time before stepping inside the darkened keep, not speaking until the heavy doors closed behind them. "He… he's left, to try to speak with the other dragons, get them to accept him as their leader."

"And if they don't?"

The corner of her mouth made a little rueful curl as they descended into the main hall, "Then they will have to answer to me. I'm not worried about it, though. Paarthurnax will keep them in line." The smile faded into nonchalance, her attention more for their son than for the dragons.

Vorstag, however, needed more reassurance. "So… all this 'stuff' is over?"

His insistent question made her look back up at him. Then she smiled, and it was like the dawn breaking the sky after a stormy night. "Aye."

She reached up on tiptoe to steal a kiss, and her stomach chose that moment to make an embarrassing noise. "Oh! Excuse me, but I'm starving. Could we have something to eat? I'll tell you all about it over lunch, or breakfast. What time is is? What day is it? How long have I been gone?"

"Barely a full day," Vorstag answered her last question first. Again the mania returned to her voice, her emotions swiftly swinging. He wisely decided to take Hamming from her arms before she started shaking.

"Only a day…?" she sighed, blinking up at him somewhat numbly. "It seems like it's been a week."

"You have physically gone where only souls and gods tread," Master Arngeir spoke, stepping out from a side archway, "Doubtless you should expect some oddities. Come. We will dine together, and you can give us a great honor: allowing us to be the first to hear your tale."

She nodded, "Seems like a fair trade. Better than singing for my supper, surely."

"I'll second that," Vorstag teased, "You can't carry a tune in a bucket." He winced when her elbow dug into his side, but as they were both wearing armor, the pain was faked.

* * *

Farkas leaned against the counter, drumming his fingers. Though he no longer had the wolfish senses granted by Hircine, he still could all but smell the sweat coming off of Athis, easily telling him the Dunmer was nervous, even if it wasn't for the incessant pacing and stroking through the short hairs of his goatee.

Farkas could sympathize, he supposed. He also didn't like waiting, the inactivity making him itch to hit something. He didn't like having to ask questions, either, but that was why Athis was with him. The Dunmer would do the talking, find out what they needed to know, and then he would tell Farkas where they would go next, probably to ask even more questions. Eventually, however, they'd be all done with the talking and Farkas would—at long last—have a target to hit.

But for now, there was too much waiting.

"Ah, Companions, I was told you wanted to speak with me?" Mallus Maccius, the owner of Honningbrew Meadery, stepped out of the backroom. He had been in possession of the Meadery ever since the last owner, Sabjorn, had been accused of trying to poison a customer.

Farkas idly wondered if the meadery was cursed, what with all the repeated poisonings seeming to take place here.

"Good evening, sir," Athis spoke. "Excuse our haste, but this matter is very important. We were wondering if we might ask you a few questions."

"I'm always willing to help the Heroes of Jorrvaskr," he wiped his hands on his apron. He couldn't help a guilty swallow, fearing that the Companions had somehow found out he was working for Maven Black-Briar. He didn't think the Companions would involve themselves in business takeovers, and though the events leading up to his gaining control over Honningbrew weren't exactly illegal, they weren't exactly ethical, either. He schooled his features and prayed that they were here on other business. "What is it you want to ask me about?"

"About the special keg of mead you sent to Lord Vorstag?"

Mallus blinked at him. "What special keg?"

Athis blinked back. "You brewed a special batch of mead just for Lord Vorstag, in anticipation of his and Lady Gerhild's victory over Alduin. You had a small keg sent up to Breezehome yesterday, just after they left, so it would be there when they returned."

"I did no such thing…" Mallus shook his head, his confusion easily negating his earlier nervousness. "Does this have anything to do with…?"

"We're asking the questions," Farkas growled, his rough voice thrumming like a predator. Mallus immediately snapped his mouth shut, his anxieties returning in full force. Everyone knew the larger twin was more even tempered than his brother, so if Farkas was upset, then something was seriously wrong. He again grew nervous and tried to school his features into something approaching helpfulness.

Athis did his best not to look at Farkas. After the events of last night, tempers were high enough already, especially among the Companions, who still thought of Gerhild as one of their own. A tragedy striking her and her home, was as good as an attack on Jorrvaskr. Athis kept his reprimand to himself; he didn't want to add fuel to the fire by disrespecting a member of the Circle in front of an outsider. But—damn it!—he wished Farkas would simply stand there and look menacing. "Please, good sir, we only wish to ask you a few questions about one of your employees. You see, we know there was a stranger in town yesterday evening, someone who made a delivery to Breezehome. We spoke with the guards at the gate, who said this stranger claimed to have a keg from Honningbrew for Lord Vorstag. We talked with one of your other employees, ah," he hesitated as he tried to remember the name, "A Nord by the name of Eimar. He said he was talking with a fellow worker yesterday—he couldn't remember the man's name. Anyway, this other employee claimed he had to make a delivery into town. Said it was a keg of some special brew just for Lord Vorstag."

Mallus swallowed again; though his apprehension was easing in Athis' reasonable presence, his confusion continued to grow. "I know nothing of that," he honestly denied. "There is no special brew; you can check my inventory if you don't believe me." He gestured behind him, seemingly granting unlimited access to the Companions.

"We'd rather check this mysterious employee," Farkas growled again, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, settling his greatsword against his back.

Mallus gave an abbreviated laugh, attempting to act calm and unconcerned as if he was trying not to provoke a predator. "So would I. I know who you're referring to, a man by the name of Benor. I hired him a few days ago, to do odd jobs, make deliveries, sweep the floors, those sort of things. He skipped out of work early yesterday with my other workers to watch what was happening up at Dragonsreach. Oh, I don't begrudge any of them the chance to see the Dragonborn at work, but Benor never came back afterwards. Not yesterday. Not today."

"Benor," Athis repeated, committing the name to memory and praying Farkas would keep his mouth shut. "Any idea where this Benor is from? Where he might have gone?"

"No, I…" he swallowed one last time. It seemed the Companions were after his wayward employee, and wanted nothing to do with him. "I heard about the fire. It was at Breezehome, wasn't it?" When neither of them answered, he pressed, "And you're asking questions about Benor. You suspect him? You think he used a fictitious delivery as an excuse to get close enough to Breezehome to start that fire?"

"No," Athis admitted. "We think Benor poisoned the mead."

Mallus was confused again. He had seen the smoke still smoldering this morning, and had heard rumors it was the Dragonborn's house that had burned, but no one had yet to mention, "…poison…?"

"Yes. We don't know what caused the fire, but there are survivors. One of them showed symptoms consistent with being poisoned, but came around long enough to mumble something about the mead. Near as we can tell, this… Benor, you said… yes, this Benor was the one who delivered the mead to Breezehome. And we think he poisoned it as well."

"Then… it wasn't an accident, was it? I mean, the fire might have been, but with the mead poisoned, and meant for Lord Vorstag, then Benor was intending to commit…"

Again Farkas' voice took on murky depths darker than ebony as he finished, "Murder."

* * *

"Oh, Vorstag…" Gerhild sighed, setting her cuirass on a handy trunk. She was exhausted, her stomach full of warm food, her limbs aching with overuse, but her mind was whirling as if she had used a Shout to speed herself up. "I… I wish I could describe it to you. The valley. The sky—and its colors!"

"Aye, love," he intoned, only half listening to her rambling words. He made her sit on the edge of the bed so he could pull off her boots. She had started getting a little glassy-eyed towards the end of supper, and he had declared it was time for bed, guiding her to the room he had been given. He got her out of the last of her armor while she babbled on.

"I saw Tsun, the brother of Stuhn. I didn't see him, Stuhn that is, but I know I felt his presence during the battle. But Tsun was guarding the bridge to the Hall of Valor. Oh! The Hall—Vorstag, you should see it! All the rooms. All the heroes…"

He continued to listen to her describe the sights and food and singing, while he removed his own armor.

"There's room after room of long tables filled to overflowing with food and feasting heroes. I didn't go too far, the people I was looking for were in the first room. I had to take a peek into the next room, however, and I saw…" she paused, taking a moment to bite her lip in an effort to hold back her tears.

"Let it out, Gerhild," he advised, sitting down next to her to kick off his own boots. She didn't respond right away, wrapping her arms around herself and scrunching into a tight little ball. He sighed and looped an arm across her shoulders, but she apparently didn't or couldn't notice him. Not giving up, he leaned back against the wall, pulling her with, his large warms hands stroking her side. "What did you see?"

She unwound just enough to curl up against him, the top of her head tucked beneath his chin, the fingers of one hand bunching the fabric of his sleeveless under tunic. "I saw… Mama… and Papa…" Her voice was small, as if she was a little girl once more, staring with adoring eyes at her infallible parents. "She was just as beautiful as I remembered her, as if the fire never touched her. And Papa! He was whole, like I'd never seen him, no scars, no limp. They were happy to see me." She paused to give a little laugh. "I told them they were grandparents, and… Oh! Hamming!"

Vorstag lifted his head to glance at the basket their son was using for a bed. Hamming was quiet, tucked safe and warm across the other side of the room. "Hush, love, he's still asleep."

"No, not our son—his namesake," she lifted her head to look at Vorstag, but her eyes didn't see him so much as they saw her memory of Sovngarde. "Your friend, Hamming. I saw him in the Hall of Valor, too. I know I've never met him, but as soon as I saw him, I knew who he was. He wanted me to tell you something…" her voice grew strange, quiet, almost trancelike as if she had to fight to remember, "It was important… to him… he wanted you to know he never meant to leave you alone…"

Vorstag couldn't breathe. Though he was glad that his friend had made it to Sovngarde, hearing Hamming's message brought back far too many painful memories. It took several heartbeats before he could re-inflate his lungs, and a few more staggered breaths before he realized she had remained oblivious to his reaction and had continued talking.

"…a few others in the valley, mostly faces I remember from the war. There was one, a Nord in a Legionnaire uniform—I thought I should know him. He seemed to remember me, but he was confused. Oh, and Ogmund was there, only he wasn't in the Hall of Valor…" her voice trailed off as her brow scrunched. "He was also lost in the mist, the fog that Alduin created to cover the valley. Every soul trapped by that mist seemed to be confused, lost mentally as well as physically. I tried to get him to follow me—I tried to get all the lost souls to follow me—but Alduin was hunting them, and they kept scattering whenever they'd hear the dragon coming." She inhaled sharply and gripped his tunic once more. "Kodlak!"

"Kodlak?" Vorstag repeated. The name was familiar, but Gerhild traveled so much and knew so many people, it was hard for him to keep track.

"Aye, Kodlak. You remember him? He was Harbinger of the Companions before Vilkas. A good friend, like a father to me, or a grandfather. I saw him in the mist earlier, but later when the heroes and I started attacking Alduin, he came to help fight. A lot of the lost Nords came to help; I suppose as the mist cleared, so did their minds. Maybe Ogmund fought, too, I'm not sure. And I think… I think Maeganna came, as well, from the Hall, but…" Her words broke off suddenly, her face falling to hide against his warm chest, her words muffled by fabric and groaning under the weight of frustration. "Stuhn's Shield, but I… I'm losing it. I had it all clearly in my head just a few hours ago, remembered it so well, but now it's fading…"

"Let it," he said softly, caressing her spine, encouraging her to let go and relax. "Let it fade. Leave the dead to their feasting in Sovngarde. We'll be there soon enough." He kissed the top of her head, her intricately braided hair smelling of her unique scent: feminine sweat and lavender soap and dragon blood. "You're alive and victorious… and back with me."

"Aye," she sighed, the single word holding a mountain of longing, her emotions mercurial. "Oh, my love, I'm tired. I want to go home."

"To Riverwood? Don't think they're done fixing the house, yet."

She made a small mewl of protest. "Then I suppose we'll have to go to Whiterun. Only I don't want to take the time traveling there. I want to be home right now."

"Right now?" he asked. "That seems kinda hard to do. We don't have our horses, so we'll have to travel on foot. It'll take at least a day to reach Ivarstead, then a good week, maybe two, to reach Riverwood…"

She waved his concern aside. "I can call a dragon and get us there in a few hours."

"Tonight?" he asked, not sounding at all enthused. The flight on the back of Odahviing was stressful enough; he didn't want to repeat the experience.

"Well," she playfully turned her head and nipped him through his tunic, "Maybe in the morning."

"Hey!" he laughed, trying to move his nipple out of reach of her teeth. Aye, he could see her emotions were still swinging wildly. "What was that for?"

"I've been gone a week."

"It's only been one day," he argued, staring into the depths of her midnight blue eyes.

"Aye, fine, for you, but for me it's felt like a week. And…" she arched her body pleasantly against his, "I've missed you."

"I, ah," he cleared his throat, "I've missed you, too."

"Have you?" she asked, the two words sounding both wanton and challenging.

Vorstag cleared his throat again, feeling things beginning to thicken up. "Aye. You sure you're up to this? A moment ago, you seemed on the verge of exhaustion…"

She kissed him. It was strong, a pressure of lips against lips, but immobile, no movement against his mouth, no tongue demanding entrance. It was merely a meeting of flesh and skin. After a moment she inhaled deeply through her nostrils, seeming to take in the scent of him, as if filling her lungs with his essence.

When she pulled back and looked down at him, he really couldn't have said why in Oblivion he had been stalling.

She gripped the front of his tunic in her hands and pulled it out of his belted leggings. She all but ducked her head into the shirt, delving beneath the fabric, while her fingers ran over his skin, circling his navel, combing his chest hair, lightly pinching a nipple.

He moaned.

"Shh," she whispered as softly as a butterfly's wings, an impish smile tugging at one corner of her mouth. "Don't wake the baby."

Don't wake the baby, he thought to himself. That was easy for her to say; she hardly ever made any noise louder than the soft mewl of a kitten. He, however, sometimes found himself gasping during sex, especially if that moment came upon him suddenly. He grit his teeth in an effort not to make a sound as her tongue joined her fingers.

Fuck this, he again thought to himself. If she wanted sex, he'd give her a night to remember.

Vorstag grabbed her wrists and pulled them to the sides, away from his tingling skin. He planted her hands very firmly on the bed, her body kneeling above his, his thin-lipped expression warning her to keep her hands where he left them. Her eyes widened with innocence, trying to promise she'd behave and do what he asked, but he didn't believe her. If she moved, he would have to deal with her. Until then…

He touched her. He touched her with the hands of a master, the hands of a man who owned her under the authority of the law of love. He possessed the feel of her, the milkiness of her skin, the steady throb of a pulse at her throat, the heavy weight of her breasts dangling above him, the softness of her firm abdomen. He pulled her tunic upwards toward her shoulders, revealing the flesh he knew better than his own. Though there was evidence on the fabric of an injury or two, the body underneath was as whole and smooth as before she left, a fact he found reassuring. It was a comfort knowing she had several Nordic heroes fighting by her side, that she hadn't been alone against Alduin as he had feared—but he wished he could have known that at the time.

He pushed away the last thoughts of the battle. It was over, her doom completed. Her life was now her own—free to be spent with him. Very reverently he unclasped her amulet of Stendarr, sending yet another silent prayer of thanksgiving, unable to count the number of times that her god, Stuhn, had saved her—saved them both! He set the amulet carefully on the trunk and turned back to focus completely on her.

He craned his neck to take in the tip of one breast, the nipple's sensitivity in a heightened state. He held it within the warmth of his mouth, flicked his tongue back and forth across the hardened nub, massaged it with his lips. He felt her tremble, her elbows nearly buckling, but for now she remained kneeling over him. He pulled off of one and allowed himself a brief, though satisfied smile, as he moved to the other.

Again he felt her reaction, a deep breath, her chest expanding and dropping a little more onto his face. His hands held the sides of her ribcage, his fingers stroking her heated skin, his thumbs beneath her breasts. When he pulled off and blew cool air across the nipple, his hands were there to support her and keep her from collapsing onto him.

She shuddered, unable to control her body, fully beneath his spell. That he knew her so intimately was something she never disputed, but it always amazed her how easily he could assert his ownership. At that moment, she couldn't realize just how much the ownership was reciprocated—how deeply she owned him heart and body and soul—she was too far gone, lost in his touches as much as those souls had been lost in the mists of Sovngarde. Her arms buckled, her strength swept away before the force of his love, but he supported her, holding her above him even as he proved himself the master.

By the Nine, but she loved this man.

Having given her breasts due attention, his aim moved lower. He started at her cleavage, an orb to either cheek, the tip of his tongue leaving a long wet trail over her skin all the way to her navel. She twitched. It was a slight reaction, barely noticeable, but he knew her so intimately by now that he could tell she'd held back a giggle over being tickled. He thought about tormenting her that way, but didn't want to take the chance of her making too much noise and waking the baby. He left her navel and continued onwards and downwards.

He had slid along beneath her body until his face was looking up at her groin. The impish smile was now on his lips, as he began undoing the fastenings holding her leggings in place. She panted, once, as if she wanted to ask a question but at the last moment stopped herself. His smile turned into that shit-eating grin as he finished with her belt and pulled it free. Then slowly, so slowly he was sure she felt every inch of skin being touched, every minute change in pressure from his fingers, he began to peel back her leggings.

He wasn't able to go far, her legs spread to either side of his shoulders, but he got far enough for his purposes. He slid around the contours of her ass, his heart giving a momentary twinge at the scars she still bore. He ignored them as always, loving HER and not her skin, until the waistband of her leggings was stretched tight just beneath the curve of her buttocks. Above him lay the patch of dark golden hair, so ripe and primed, like a field of wheat ready for harvest. He could smell her arousal, even if he hadn't seen the moisture clinging to the apex of the triangle. One hand gripped her hip to steady her while the other slipped fingers amid the wet curls.

Again there was that heavy breath, that voiceless sigh, her body leaning into him, wanting more. He withheld the penetration for now, stroking her from without, his agile fingers running along the length of her lips, spreading her desire to cool in the air.

She barely kept herself from moaning, the feel of his fingers so satisfying while at the same time frustrating. She loved what he was doing, but she wanted so much more. She felt empty inside, hollow and bare and she KNEW he could fill her, he could complete her, he could drive away the emptiness and make her whole. She tried, she honestly tried to kneel there above him and trust and wait and endure…

Deftly his fingertips swept upwards, brushing against that secret place, that outer core, that hub of sensitivity. She shuddered, her breath staggered, and her elbows at last gave out. She collapsed face first into the mattress, threatening to suffocate him beneath her groin, her thighs still held fast together by her leggings. He rolled her off of him, chuckling softly and ignoring her indignant huff over being treated so roughly.

He continued to roll her until she was once more facedown on the sheets and pillows. She turned her face to stare at him, one golden eyebrow lifting questioningly, but he only smiled in response. Then he moved slowly, on his hands and knees, behind her out of sight.

By the Nine, but he loved this woman, this treasure, this miracle. Never in his life had he imagined that he would find a woman so rare, who would love him as fully as he loved her. Yet it happened. Though it had been a long journey, painful, dangerous, and with more than its fair share of frustration—he now held her heart in his hands. He cradled it gently, protected if fiercely, gave it room to grow and a safe haven during the storms. Exactly how he had succeeded was still a mystery, but the fact was obvious: Gerhild loved him. And he did his best every day to be worthy of her love.

He sat across her ass, keeping most of his weight off of her, and leaned forwards. Again he faced her scars, the reminders she kept of her hatred for the Thalmor. A jumbled mass of lines crisscrossed her back, from just beneath her shoulder blades to—he knew—partway down her thighs. As always he ignored them, refused to trace them, denied them a part in their life together. Instead his hands started at her shoulders, rubbing and kneading tired and overtaxed muscles, working out knots of tension, easing the exhaustive trembling into stillness. He watched her closely, saw her close her eyes, felt her take a deep breath, heard her purr like a large cat.

"You falling asleep?" he asked softly.

"No." Her voice was muffled by and mumbled into the pillows, but he could see the corner of one eye crinkle slightly. "You're not getting off that easy."

He chuckled soundlessly. He truly did love her with all his being.

Gerhild had lain there, like clay in his hands, her whole being coming into existence at his touch. The only issue was her scars: every mark, every ridge, every line and curve stood out not because she felt them, not because he felt them, but because she DIDN'T feel. Each smooth expanse of pale flesh was a nerveless inverted groove that blatantly left her momentarily untouched. And she hated it. She jealously hated every minutiae of sensation her scars stole from her, every featherlight touch, every gentle caress, every warm pressure of her husband's hands. And the worst part was: she could not blame the Thalmor for it. Aye, they had given her the scars, but she had kept them. She could have—should have—gotten rid of the scars long ago, but she had stubbornly, foolishly insisted on keeping them.

Well, it wasn't too late.

With her mind made up, she was able to relax, still not as completely as she wanted, but far enough for the tension to ease, for the memories of battle to fade, for the adrenaline to bleed away. When he asked her if she was falling asleep, she heard a playful tone to his voice. She could just imagine the boyish grin stretching his thin lips, and had to fight the impulse to twist beneath him and seize those lips for a kiss.

Vorstag's touch changed, moving away from massaging and towards caressing. His calloused fingers were tender as they roamed over her skin, dipping along her ribs to brush against the side of a breast, sliding up her spine to tickle a few loose hairs at the nape of her neck, delving towards the small of her back and lower, slipping into the crack of her ass, stroking himself in the process. She wiggled suggestively, her eyes still closed but a flirtatious dimple marring one perfect cheek.

He obliged. Shifting backwards, he took hold of her waistband and finished pulling her leggings off, revealing her long and graceful limbs. Toned muscle flexed and bunched beneath him as she tried to stay still—however badly she wanted to switch their positions and straddle him. He figured he could hold her off for a little while longer, though he wasn't going to last too long himself. Only slightly clumsily he kicked out of his own leggings, shaking the bed and making her look back at him curiously.

He shrugged and climbed back up behind her.

Her brow scrunched and her lips parted, asking a silent question, wondering what he was up to. He didn't answer, not verbally at any rate, but settled his weight along her body, spooning her from above, his breath hot against her neck. One of his hands wormed its way between her stomach and the bed, the fingers reaching her navel, stroking downwards, the going slow due to the lack of space. She tried to lift herself up and give him more room, but his weight kept her pinned, his body refusing to give her any leeway. Giving up, she lay still once more, her eyes closed and focused on what he was doing.

His cock was swelling against the crack of her ass, poking at her from behind. Briefly she wondered if he was going to attempt something new that night, but her concern was unwarranted. A moment later and he pressed his legs down between hers, spreading her open, angling his hips so he could reach a better target. When his fingers, still assailing her from the front, at last came to that tiny bud of pleasure, she shuddered. He took that as his signal to finally slide himself home.

He heard her silent moan when he sheathed his dagger, and inhaled the unique scent of her as sweat began to bead across her skin. He pressed his nose into her tightly braided hair, his mouth open to fan his breath across the back of her ear. He wasn't going to be able to do this for long, pinning her as he was, impaling her yielding flesh, taking her from behind as if he was using a different orifice. He strangled the groan in his throat and tried to hold off, tried to think of something else as his fingers danced and teased and brought her towards…

Their bodies were pressed so close together, it came over them almost as one. She reached it a fraction of a moment sooner, that unmaking, that rebirth. Her body shook violently, rocking against him, drawing him in even further, trembling and convulsing around him as if milking his cock, bringing him to that moment when emotions became physical. He gasped—damn it—and forced his mouth against her neck, trying to suffocate his sounds against her heated skin as he mindlessly spent himself within her.

At last their bodies grew still, skin slicked with sweat, muscles lax after exertion, hearts pounding like hoofbeats, lungs gasping for a steady breath. Vorstag barely managed to roll their bodies to the side, not wanting to suffocate her, but still wanting to remain with her, within her, a part of her and her a part of him. He closed his eyes, sated for the moment, and idly allowed his fingers to stroke and pet the patch of tightly curled hair.

Gerhild gave a breathy, soundless laugh. "You want to go again? So soon?"

He hummed into her hair. "Aye, love, I'm not satisfied yet."

"Neither am I," she sighed, her hand slipping behind her to find his coarse, short hairs. She felt his abdominals clench, the muscles strong and well defined, as her fingers played across his skin. An idea came over her, one that caused that marring little dimple to reappear on her cheek. The first round had been all him, all his ideas and touches and ministrations. Now it was her turn.

She pulled forward out of his arms, heard his small sound of protest, and saw the boyish pout on his lips. She kissed the pout away, tweaked his nose for good measure, and made him lie on his front.

Vorstag was built like a mountain, all massive muscle and controlled strength. She loved that about him—she loved so many things about him: his gentleness despite his size, his acceptance of what he couldn't change, his acceptance of her and her little quirks and idiosyncrasies. He never forced her to be something she wasn't, never made her out to be more than she was, never turned away out of fear or disgust. He was her mountain, her anchor, her love.

And how she had ever been so blessed to have him in her life would forever be a mystery to her.

Her hands splayed out over his back, feeling his muscles taut beneath his skin. She wanted to sit there and count the freckles across his shoulders; she wanted to lie over his form and feel him supporting her. It seemed so long since the last time they were together—the night before capturing Odahviing—because so much had happened from her perspective. She had missed him so much it hurt.

Much to her chagrin, a tear slipped past her lashes, trailed down the roundness of her cheek, and dripped onto his back. She stared at it reproachfully, wanting to scold it, wanting to take it back and make it disappear. The teardrop, towards the edge of one shoulder blade, sat there and merely reflected the candlelight, without malice or intent. It simply existed.

She was sure Vorstag must have felt it, but he made no reaction. Thinking the tear might go unnoticed if she ignored it, she bent over him and kissed the salty drop away. As she did so, more tears escaped from her closed eyes.

Now he moved. Now he rolled over to face her, though her eyes remained squeezed shut. Now his lips kissed her cheeks, kissed away the bitter evidence of her weakness…

Now his arms enveloped her and protected her and supported her.

"I don't know why I'm crying," she whispered, due in part to her emotions, and in part to not wanting to wake Hamming.

"Doesn't matter," he breathed into her hair.

And there it was: his acceptance. Forever and always, like a mountain. No matter how far she went, or how long she was away, her mountain would always be there for her, waiting for her return, ready to love her and accept her and complete her.

When her tears dried, she realized that his fingers were in her hair, that they had been working her braids out for some time. She continued to lay there, sprawled across his chest, as he finished freeing the last of the dark golden strands. His fingers were tender, loving, as they combed the locks, spread them down her back to fall at her sides. The featherlight ends tickled her, making her squirm, making her smile.

"You alright?" he hummed.

She gave the question serious consideration. Her emotions were still in turmoil, like a swift current flowing deeply beneath still waters. But there was nothing threatening to boil to the surface at that moment, "For now, I think."

Vorstag smiled, brushing an errant strand back from her face. She pushed herself up onto her hands and knees, and proclaimed, "I'd like to try that again."

His smile deepened, making her want to blush. Instead she punched him, playfully, on the thickest part of his bicep. He pouted again, also playfully, and rubbed the spot like it was very sore already. She rolled her eyes and leaned over to kiss it. His skin was slightly salty, the sweat from earlier dried and leaving behind the thirsty taste. She lifted her face up only a little as she whispered, "Your turn to lie still…"

Hours later, they at last lay sated in a jumbled mess of limbs and sweat and rumbled bedclothes. His head was heavy across her stomach, her fingers combing his hair, in a near perfect reversal of their earlier positions. Indeed, her fingers began to idly play with a long lock about a finger's worth in thickness, toying with braiding the strand. She remembered how lanky and oily his hair looked when they first met, before she convinced him of the benefits of regular bathing. Now he had a thick mane of dark brown hair, healthy and soft and surprisingly easy to braid. Briefly she wondered why he didn't wear any braids, as most Nord men, instead leaving his hair long and free. There was so much about him she didn't understand, like why he kept the scars from the troll…

"I want to go to Riften."

Vorstag was surprised enough to lift his head, pulling his hair—and the half-finished braid—from her fingers. "What was that?"

"I…" she licked her lips, but though she couldn't have said where those words had come from, or why she had said them, she knew they were the absolute truth. "I want to go to Riften. It's time. It's past time. I need the scars to be gone. Now."

He wanted to ask her if she was sure. He wanted to know that this was honest and not some wayward impulse of her continuous emotional upheaval. Looking into her deep blue eyes, however, was all the answer he needed. "Alright, but in the morning. And we go to Riverwood first. Drop Hamming off with Gerdur and Ralof, or even Lydia in Whiterun."

"You don't want to take him with us? Afraid he might follow in his father's footsteps and get a tattoo?" she teased.

Vorstag didn't answer verbally. Instead his fingers dove mercilessly into her sides, making her laugh and buck and twist…

Hamming woke up.

"You woke the babe."

"I…?" Gerhild sputtered, trying to stifle her laughter, "You… he… it was…"

"Your turn anyway, to take care of him." He rolled off of her with a grunt and pulled the pelts up over his shoulder.

Hamming wasn't crying outright, but he was fussing, and the fussing was getting louder the longer he was ignored.

She pushed herself up onto her hands, staring down in disbelief at her husband. "My turn?"

"Aye," he deadpanned, adding a yawn for good measure, "You've missed a whole week with him, remember? That's a lot to make up for."

"But I…" She looked over at Hamming, and could see him moving beneath his blankets. The babe's fussing was getting more insistent, and would soon be loud enough to wake the Greybeards if she didn't attend to him quickly. "It was just a day…" She looked back at Vorstag, but his eyes were closed and his face reposed as if he were already asleep. Then she saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

"You… you… oh!" she huffed, but it was without heat, as she found herself more than willing to attend to their son. Hard pressed not to laugh over the silliness of the situation, she eagerly left the bed and approached Hamming's basket. She sighed as she lifted him into her arms, cooed as she cradled him, and smiled while she rocked him back to sleep. For the first time in a long time—perhaps ever!—Gerhild was content.


	11. Smoke Screen

The dragon looked as uncomfortable to be perched in the courtyard behind High Hrothgar, as Vorstag looked uncomfortable facing it without his sword in his hand. He glanced over to Gerhild, who had insisted upon carrying Hamming this morning, as she spoke with the dragon. "You said Paarthurnax sent you?"

"Yes, Dovahkiin," the dragon bowed his head respectfully. He was smaller than the ones they'd seen lately, Vorstag thought, either a weaker dragon or a runt or something of the sort. It had probably been hiding from Dovahkiin and all the challenges, desperate to keep its soul to itself. Vorstag came out of his musings in time for it to continue. "He said to tell you: he was flying over the plains, when he saw a great smoke. He knew you would want to go there. He sent me here, to offer you and your kin," it managed to put a slight slur into the word, "Transportation." The dragon's lip curled, apparently finding the whole situation distasteful.

"Where is this great smoke?" Vorstag asked, suspicious.

The dragon turned his eye towards him and remained silent.

"Answer his question, as you would mine," Gerhild's voice held a sharp edge to it.

The dragon lowered his gaze. "In a group of structures made of stone and wood. I know not the words the Joor use, to name their lairs. It is the one nestled beneath the lone mountain in the middle of the plain; that is all I know how to describe it."

"Sounds like Whiterun," Gerhild mused.

"A great smoke," Vorstag seemed focused on those words. "Do you think something's on fire? Could a dragon have attacked Whiterun while you were in Sovngarde?"

"I would not think so," the dragon answered, even though Vorstag meant to be asking Gerhild. It was taking her order to answer his questions very literally. "I came from the east this morning, so I have not seen this smoke for myself, but I do know most—perhaps all—of the dragons have been still, quiet in their dens, waiting to see who would be the victor between Alduin and Dovahkiin."

"Hedging your bets," he mumbled beneath his breath.

Gerhild heard the bitter comment. "It's done," she said to him. "Remember, Paarthurnax will keep the dragons in line, or they will have to answer to me. Isn't that right?"

The nameless dragon again meekly lowered its head. "As you say, Dovahkiin. But, if you do not mind, could we leave shortly? Though I do not wish to incur your disfavor, this task is… disagreeable… to me. The sooner it is accomplished, the sooner I can hide my shame."

Gerhild gave a knowing little chuckle, feeling empathy for his plight thanks to the dragon-like taint on her soul. "Aye, we are ready to depart. Master Arngeir," she turned to the ancient Greybeard, reaching out to take his hands in hers. "Master, thank you, yet again, for all you've done for me. I know you wish it could be otherwise, but…"

"But this was ever the pattern woven for your destiny," he finished for her. "Aye, dear child of Stuhn, your's was the most repugnant and invidious of tasks. But that is behind you, now. If you wish to turn your gaze towards worshiping Kyne, you will be welcomed here once more."

"I cannot turn from Stuhn," she shook her head sadly, "Not after all he has done to protect me and those I love. But there is no more cause for me to hurt and rend with my Thu'um, nor any desire to do so. Perhaps, someday, I might return. I thank you for the offer." She reached up to place a chaste kiss on his cheek.

Vorstag fought hard to keep his expression impassive.

He walked beside her towards the dragon, still sitting meekly, though reluctantly, on the snow-covered yard. In a quiet aside, he comment, "A little overdramatic, wasn't that?"

Gerhild's shoulders gave a little twitch as she fought not to chuckle. "Master Arngeir has always been that way, and I sorta got caught up in the moment. Forgive me?" She batted flirtatious eyes at him.

Vorstag rolled his eyes in response, before giving her the smile she loved so dearly. "Let me help you up first, then I'll pass you Hamming."

In very short time they were airborne, the dragon eager to get its duty as pack-beast over with before another dragon could see its disgrace. Vorstag sat behind Gerhild, who had insisted on keeping Hamming in her arms. He stared over her shoulder, hating the way the side of the mountain fell away so sharply. Yet he was eager to find out what was on fire and giving enough smoke to cause a dragon concern, so he bravely fought down the urge to vomit a scream, and waited expectantly for his first glimpse of Whiterun Hold.

They emerged from beneath the clouds a few miles from Riverwood, allowing Vorstag a brief glimpse of their house—still under repair—before swinging through the pass and entering the plains. Immediately his eyes grew wide, despite the wind of their passage stinging them.

"Stuhn's Shield." It was hard to say which of them spoke first, but the sentiment was shared. "Fly closer," Gerhild ordered, hunching over Hamming to protect him from the increased wind.

The dragon growled, but that was all the protest it made. It began a dive, straight for the city, its great wings solid and closer against its sides as it used gravity and air currents to increase its speed. Whiterun quickly grew, from a dark smudge against the soft green of the prairie, into walls and buildings and stonework and wood. At the last moment the dragon shifted, pushing its chest forward and beating its wings, to slow down enough to allow Gerhild and Vorstag a clear view of the city. They were still high in the sky, the dragon no doubt wishing to stay out of arrow range, but they were close enough they had to circle the column of smoke.

"That's… that's…"

"Breezehome," Gerhild stated simply.

"Maybe," he allowed while desperately trying to find a way to deny it. "I can't tell, through the smoke, which house is burning…"

"It's not one of the houses against the city wall," Gerhild argued, her heart filling with dread, "And it's densest between the forge and the marketplace. No, my love, that is our house on fire."

Vorstag stared at the slowly flowing tower of black smoke climbing into the sky. He lowered his gaze to the ground, trying to make out what was down there, but the smoke was thickest at the base, spreading out across the ground and obscuring as much if not more than the distance obscured. Then Gerhild's order shocked him out of his study.

"Land at the Keep."

"No," he countered firmly. "Land outside the city, away from any houses."

"Vorstag…" her tone had an edge of ringing steel behind it.

"It isn't safe to land in the city," he had heard the mania behind her words, and prayed he could still reason with her. "We're riding a dragon. The city guards will try to shoot it on sight; they won't take the time to stop and see that we're sitting on its back."

"A few arrows won't hurt the dragon," she countered, "Nor us—we're wearing armor."

"But Hamming isn't," he trumped her. "Would you take that chance, of a stray arrow striking our son?"

He could sense the tension boiling off of her, like the smoke boiling off of their house. "Fuck!"

"Language."

"Do as he says," she spoke to the dragon, unapologetic for swearing so crassly in front of her infant son. "Land near those crossroads, there. It'll take time to get to the city…"

"But worth it," Vorstag put his hand over her shoulder. He wasn't sure how much she could feel through her armor, but he was fairly sure she noticed the gesture. "That fire isn't going to get put out any time soon, and I think the damage has been done. Let's keep us safe, you, me and Hamming, while we figure out what has happened."

She didn't like it, she knew neither did he, but they didn't have to like it, they simply had to do it. She nodded, once, short and curt, but it was assent.

The dragon was glad to get rid of his passengers, the sooner the better, and had started to change his course the moment Vorstag made his suggestion. It only took a few moments to transverse the few miles into the countryside away from any roads or watchtowers, and though she regretted every wasted moment, Gerhild allowed it to land.

"Dovahkiin," it said as Vorstag disembarked, rather quickly, "I gather it was your den that has been destroyed?"

"It was."

"And you intend to discover who has done this disrespectful deed?"

"WE do," Vorstag emphasized, taking Hamming from her arms.

"Then I will assist," it inclined its head. "I will speak with the other dragons. If it was one of my kind, I will find out, and you will be informed."

"Thank you," she said, swinging a leg over the ridge of his neck before sliding down next to Vorstag. She had barely taken a step away before the beast was lumbering for room to beat its wings and take flight once more.

Vorstag watched it for a moment, asking quietly, "Do you think it will keep its promise to help?"

"Doesn't matter," she shrugged, turning away to start through the grasslands at a jog. Vorstag had to hustle to keep up with her, keeping hold of their son as he was sure she'd rather not be hindered by a babe just then. "That fire is too precise, restricted to one or two houses. If a dragon set the fire, half the city would be aflame."

"So…" he prompted, catching up to her.

"So it wasn't a dragon. I think it knew that, but it wanted to make sure I wouldn't suspect any dragons, just in case. Feel like running?"

"Nope," he answered honestly, juggling Hamming's sling around until it was more secure, "But I will."

Gerhild smiled within her helmet, but it wasn't a joyous smile.

* * *

They made Whiterun sooner than she had predicted, thanks in part to their brisk pace. The guards instantly recognized them, by their manner as much as their distinctive armor. Gerhild resisted the urge to Shout the main gate open, despite having to slow to a walk to allow the guards to open it, feeling even more time being wasted. She could have gotten there even sooner, she knew, by using a particular Shout, but she would have left Vorstag and Hamming behind, and they were as much a part of this as she. They should be together to face this disaster.

She stifled her frustrations behind deep violet eyes framed within a mask of ice. This wasn't the homecoming she had expected. Not that she craved festivities and celebrations and toasting, but she had just defeated the World Eater, damn it! There should be some acknowledgement of her feat. Instead she entered Whiterun, tired and footsore, breathing hard, only to choke on the smoke.

And the unmistakeable stench of burnt flesh.

The guards didn't offer any explanation, neither did she ask for one. The gates finished opening, revealing the sight she had expected. A row of men and women, citizens and guards, snaked down the street to pass buckets, starting at the stream that ran next to the battlements. They disappeared into the smoke, which drifted around the buildings and across the street, swirling and eddying due to wind currents and the movements of the people. There were voices raised further on into the mayhem, shouts and warnings and commands, as faceless souls tried vainly to save what was already lost.

She glanced back once to make sure Vorstag and Hamming were within the gates, before marching in to do battle with fire. Hardly anyone took notice of her, focused on their ineffectual tasks, too tired to register any change in the environment. She headed deep into the bluish-gray smoke that obscured landmark or guide, feeing like she was once more wandering through the mist that had covered Sovngarde. Briefly she entertained the idea that Alduin had come back from the dead, that he had caused this fire to torment her. But she knew that couldn't be. It was another who had done this heinous deed, another who would pay for their treachery.

She followed the sounds of the voices, homing in on their locations, rightly figuring that the shouting would be closest to the source of the smoke. It seemed a long time, but a form finally emerged from the haze, tall and dark, wearing the wolf armor of the Harbinger.

"Vilkas!" she shouted normally, and suppressed the gasp when he turned to face her. He was tired and gray, covered with greasy soot that resembled his old war paint. His eyes were bloodshot and his lips were pulled back in a snarl that spoke of the battle he was waging.

"What is it now, you insolent whelp!" he shouted back, before he blinked and recognized Gerhild. "Sorry. Thought you were Ria, again. Watch it! There's a flareup to your left!"

Some guard cursed, jumping back as flames did indeed flare back into life, no less than three feet from him.

The fire was out of control, sporadically bursting to life in random places, and just as quickly burning itself out as it was being put out by the volunteers. "Stand back," Gerhild ordered, knowing she wouldn't get an explanation until after the fire was completely out. Vilkas nodded, trusting her though he didn't know what she had planned, and began recalling his men. They willingly scattered, exhausted and heart-weary over the daunting task. When it seemed enough of them had removed themselves from the worst of the fire, Gerhild pulled her shoulders back and took a deep breath.

_"Fo Krah Diin!"_

Ice shot out from her. Ice and wind and frost and snow, for as long as she could exhale. She turned her head slightly, sweeping her Shout back and forth across the smoking ruins. The smoke ceased to be replaced by mist, as the ice melted in the ashes and the ashes cooled beneath the ice. Vilkas had to shield his eyes, on the edge of her Thu'um-created blizzard, the cold stinging just as much as the smoke of a moment before.

"Shit!" he gasped when it was over. He had turned aside and hunched his shoulders, a hand over his face, to protect himself from the frost. Normally he wouldn't have bothered, but after battling all the heat and smoke for so long, the cold was exceptionally, well, cold. Cautiously he looked back, peeking over his shoulder, to ensure that matters were under control. He shook his head, trying to knock a sweat-sticky strand of hair out of the corner of his eye, while taking in the sight. "Warn me next time you're gonna Shout, would ya?"

Gerhild didn't answer him, her eyes glued to the scene slowly coming into existence through the last of the smoke and mist. She had been right; it was Breezehome that lay prostrate before her, burned to ashes, the heat of the fire having been so intense that even the stones had split and disintegrated. There was nothing recognizable about it, nothing to say that this had been her house, except for the location.

"What. Happened."

Vilkas recognized that tone of voice, from the Gerhild of old. Nervously he looked around for Vorstag, easily discernible in his unique armor, knowing he would need his calming presence as he spoke with her. Vorstag had remained near the gates, however, not wanting to bring Hamming too close to the smoke. As the haze began to clear and the commotion started to settle, he acknowledged Vilkas' wave and started down the street.

Other people were coming, too, now that the fire was finally out and they could stop and breathe and take stock of the situation. They were too focused on the ruins of Breezehome to notice Vorstag, dragon armor notwithstanding, and crowded around the father and babe and impeded his progress.

"I won't ask again," Gerhild warned.

"Let's, ah, wait for Vorstag to get here, so I don't have to keep going over it."

"Vilkas…" she drew out his name, like a mother on the verge of scolding her errant boy.

He blew out an exasperated breath, choked on some phlegm leftover from the smoke, and leaned away to spit it out. "Just a moment," he stalled, trying to cough up more mucous, hoping she would buy the excuse.

At the very least, she allowed it.

"I'm here," Vorstag announced, finally reaching their sides. "I don't like the way the smoke is lingering around here on the street; Hamming has already started coughing. Do you think we could move back a bit, maybe head up towards the Gildergreen?"

VIlkas nodded, "Good idea. You'll wanna go to the Temple, anyway."

Gerhild didn't answer. She had said she would not ask again, and she meant it. She wasn't about to head to the Temple of Kynareth, not yet, not until she had some start of an explanation at least. She crossed the street and climbed the hill around the Drunken Huntsman. Regal like a queen holding court, she turned and waited for them to join her.

The two men exchanged a wary glance. Vorstag didn't argue but climbed the hill, effectively climbing up out of the worst of the haze, and took a deep breath when he tasted clearer air. Then he turned and got his first good look at Breezehome.

"Stuhn's Shield," he whispered, "How did this happen?"

"We don't know how the fire started," Vilkas answered, having trudged reluctantly behind him, "Other than it happened sometime during the night, right after you left for Alduin. By morning things looked under control, but then we had our first flare up. I don't know what you stored in your home, but every time we thought we had the fire put out, something new would catch and we'd be back at square one."

"Mostly potion ingredients," she answered, still staring at the rubble, "Dragon bones, fire salts, spawn ash, lots of flammable items. I never expected a fire…"

"No one ever does."

"Was anyone at home?"

Vilkas lowered his head in sorrow at Vorstag's question. "We couldn't be sure, not until the fire was out and we could search the ashes, but…" he sighed, rubbing at his bloodshot eyes and smearing the soot, burying the grime deep into the lines of his face, "Rhiada and Lydia are unaccounted for."

Gerhild felt her heart break, thinking of the other young mother. She couldn't let the hurt show, however, not until matters were dealt with. "Maniel?"

Vilkas took a deep breath. "He's up at the Temple. He's got a cough, no doubt due to a lungful or two of smoke, but Danica is handing matters. She had already found a way to ease his usual discomfort; she is confident he will recover from this without any lingering physical ailments."

"And Argis?"

Again Vilkas hesitated. "I… well… you should see for yourself."

"By the Nine," whispered Vorstag, "No, please, gods, no…" He was already moving, walking across the entrance of the Drunken Huntsman. It was the quickest way to the Hall of the Dead, where he feared Argis would be, laid out on a stone table as cold as his body…

"Vorstag," Vilkas caught up with him and stopped him with a hand to his shoulder. "He's in the Temple. It's not good, I know, but… he is alive."

"I'll heal him, Vorstag," Gerhild affirmed. "However he's hurt, I can heal it."

"No, you can't," Vilkas countered, "Not unless you know a spell that will heal poison."

"Poison…?" She stared at him, her brows curling with confusion. "I thought… with the fire… how was he poisoned?"

Vilkas grunted, "Again, we're not sure. Argis came around long enough to say the mead was poisoned, before he slipped into a deep sleep."

Gerhild was done. She was done with being confused, done with seeing her life leveled to the ground, done with hearing the story out of order. "Start at the beginning, Vilkas. What happened after Vorstag and I left to face Alduin?" So much for not repeating herself.

But Vilkas was too exhausted to have noticed it. "Near as we've been able to piece together," he started talking as they started walking again, "Right after you left, someone from Honningbrew Meadery brought a small cask through the gates for Breezehome, saying it was a special celebratory brew for Lord Vorstag. This stranger was seen handing the cask to Lydia, and then he left Whiterun. No one has seen him since. And Mallus Maccius denies having brewed anything special for Vorstag."

"Are you certain?" she asked, her mind scrutinizing every suspicion.

"Reasonably," allowed Vilkas. "I have Athis and Farkas working on tracking down this wayward stranger. Anyway, back to the timeline," they had reached the Temple, and paused outside to let him finish, "Sometime during the night, a fire started at the back end of Breezehome. It spread quickly, and by the time the guards saw the flames and raised the alarm, it was too late. The fire was burning too hot and for too a long time, through the rest of the night, we couldn't save the house or anyone inside. Argis and Maniel were found outside, in the street. Maniel was coughing and pointing at the house, crying for his mother. Argis was unconscious, a lump the size of a egg on his forehead. We thought he had been knocked out or something, and took them both to the Temple. Danica examined him and determined there was more than a concussion, that he had been poisoned. She gave him some herbs, and he came around long enough to tell us it was the mead. Then he fell asleep, and Danica hasn't been able to rouse him since."

Gerhild nodded. "Vorstag, why don't you go inside and see how Argis and Maniel are doing."

"No," he shook his head, pressing his thin lips into a stubborn line. "I know what you're thinking."

"Vorstag…"

"Someone wants me dead this time," he countered. "Someone brought poisoned mead to our home, specifically for me; everyone knows you don't drink it. Maybe this stranger set the fire, maybe something else started it, but the mead was meant to kill me. I'm a part of this, Gerhild; I'll stay and hear the rest of it."

He had a point, damn it. "Very well. Vilkas, where are Athis and Farkas now? How close are they to capturing this vanished stranger?"

Vilkas shrugged, spreading his hands. "They sent a message from the Meadery, stating that, yes, the stranger did come from the Meadery, but Mallus denies ever brewing, much less sending, a special batch just for Vorstag. Athis and Farkas planned to question the patrols next, try to find out if anyone has seen this, ah, what was the name…"

"They have the stranger's name?" she asked, feeling for the first time that morning that things might not be as bleak as she feared.

"Aye, lass, it was…" he made a disgusted noise as he reached for a pouch at this belt. Taking out a small slip of paper, he read, "Benor."

"Fuck!" Vorstag stared at them both.

Gerhild felt the urge to chide him for swearing in front of the babe, until she saw the look on his face. "Vorstag? What is it?!" She reached out for Hamming, fearing he'd drop their son, he looked so shocked.

"I remember him," Vorstag answered in a quiet voice, hardly noticing her take the sling from his shoulders. "It was during all the festivities up at Windhelm. The fighting competition. Benor and I faced each other; he was the one who nailed me in the, ah, sweetmeats with a chunk of wood."

"He was pretty hot after his defeat," Vilkas nodded agreement. "I remember him now, though I'd never learned his name. Aye, I think he would be angry enough with you, to come here and try for revenge."

"Only Argis drank the mead, instead of you," Gerhild finished. "But where does the fire fit in? And how did Benor get the poison? That's not something you can easily pick up."

"I've sent word to various apothecaries," Vilkas offered, "Asking if they sold any sort of poison to someone matching Benor's description. It'll be some time before we hear back from them."

"Then let's hope Athis and Farkas find the son of a bitch!"

"There's one possibility already…" Vorstag suggested hesitantly, "…Norilar."

Gerhild felt her blood run cold at the name, and knew his blood was just as cold to have mentioned it. "No," she tried to deny, shaking her head as she held Hamming a little closer to her chest, "No, he's after me, not you…"

"He could be thinking that getting rid of me would hurt you, throw you off balance, or that getting me out of the way would make you an easier target. Or he could simply want me dead. I did escape from him, too, ya know."

She could barely breathe, her mind refusing to go down that rabbit hole, to try to reason through what was going on inside that twisted Thalmor brain. "Vilkas," she said at last, in a terribly quiet and calm voice, "When Athis and Farkas return, when Benor is brought back here to face his crimes," she looked him square in the eye, "I want to question him myself. If it is Norilar who's done this, I will finish him next, scars or no."

Vilkas wasn't sure what she meant about scars, but he saw the mania in her deep violet orbs, the blood lust, the wild and untamed mother sabrecat protecting her family. He gave a simple nod in answer.

"Let's see how Maniel and Argis are doing," she stated flatly, "Perhaps I can help, perhaps not. But they are my responsibility." She held Hamming in one arm while pushing open the Temple door with the other.

Another heartbreaking sight met her eyes. Argis was there, nestled comfortably in a side alcove, looking so peaceful he might have been simply napping. His injury had been healed, thanks to Danica's skills, without blemish or scar to mark its passing, and his body had been washed clean and draped with a fresh blanket. Cuddling next to him was Maniel, also fast asleep, his little hands clinging tightly to the pelts, one arm wrapped securely as far as he could reach across Argis' massive chest.

"Maniel?" Gerhild called softly, not wanting to wake him, but thinking it might be best if she did.

"Don't bother," Danica sighed sadly from the side. She had been sitting on a stool, taking a rest, and grunted as she gained her feet. "Even if you wake him, he won't leave his Papa; and he's doing Argis no ill. Lady Gerhild, I trust Vilkas has told you what happened?"

"As far as he knew. Can you add anything to it? Do you know what type of poison was used? Does Argis stand any chance of recovering?"

Danica sighed again, so tired her bones ached. She hadn't slept since the fire, too concerned over Argis' condition to leave him for very long. She stared sadly at the two, father and son, and shook her head. "I do not know, Lady Gerhild. All I can say is this: he's lived this long, perhaps he may yet recover. Maybe he didn't have a full dose. Maybe his size is helping dilute the poison enough that he can pull through. But he's been unconscious for so long, now, it's too hard to tell—there may be lingering damage, to his mind. I don't know… I simply do not know… We'll have to wait for him to wake up."

Gerhild nodded, as if she suspected as much. She saw Ria slip into the Temple and head directly for Vilkas, to whisper something in his ear. He listened for several moments and nodded once before sending her away.

Danica had continued talking, the exchange between Vilkas and Ria going on behind her back. "I have Arcadia working on something, a potion, one that cures most poisons, since we don't know which specific poison was used. It should work, but it won't be ready until tomorrow, I think. I'm not sure; I've lost track of the days. But Argis is strong; if he can make it until the potion is ready, he should recover."

Gerhild looked to the other side, to see Vorstag standing near the alcove. He started to reach out, hesitated, and finally set his hand on Maniel's back. She wasn't sure whom he had been first reaching for, but it didn't matter. "Thank you, Danica, I'm sure you're doing all you can."

"Noooo," a small voice wailed softly, the sound pulling at Gerhild's heartstrings. "Papa, Papa, I have to stay with Papa, Mama said so…" Maniel broke off his protests to fall into a mild fit of coughing.

"The boy will recover from this," Danica started out confidently, but continued a little less sure, "Well, recover physically. I have no idea, emotionally, how he will fare. He's only four. If his mother did die in the fire…"

Gerhild had been trying to keep that thought at bay, that memory, that similarity between herself and the boy. Maniel's father died before he was born, and his mother undoubtedly lay beneath the ashes of Breezehome, and the only father he'd ever known was slowly being poisoned to death. She swallowed, her heart already telling her it was useless to hope. Maniel would have to grow up quickly in this world, just like she had been forced to do, orphaned, no home, no inheritance, no future. "Maniel will not be alone," she said suddenly. "Argis will survive this. And Vorstag and I will also watch over him."

Vorstag looked up from where he'd been rubbing Maniel's back, trying to calm the boy, his lips pressed into a thin, determined line, his eyes drooping sadly at the corners. He caught her gaze and inclined his head.

Vilkas came up and cleared his throat. "I have news," he said softly, trying to keep his voice from reaching Maniel's ears. "Two bodies were found in the debris. Well, not bodies, but bits of bones and…" he stopped, unable to continue, finding Maniel's glazed eyes on him.

"Rhiada and Lydia," Gerhild voiced even softer.

Vilkas nodded. "They are the only two in Whiterun unaccounted for. I'm sorry, Gerhild, we'll have to accept the fact that they are dead."

She didn't acknowledge him, other than a single slow blink of grief. She turned from Vilkas and approached the boy. "Maniel? How are you? Do you have any trouble breathing?"

He shrugged, sleepily, one hand letting go of Argis' blanket long enough to rub at his eye. "A little. But Mama said I was to stay with Papa."

"She did say that," Gerhild affirmed. "And you've done very well. Your Mama is very proud of you."

Maniel sniffed and gave a little smile at that. "Where's Mama. Did you see her? Is she coming?" He started looking around, thinking maybe Rhiada was standing behind Gerhild, or about to walk through the door, or jump out from a corner and surprise him, or…

"Maniel," she started, not sure what she was going to say. Lost, scared, memories of her childhood too strong to ignore, she looked to Vorstag for help.

"Manny," he knelt down, closer to the boy's eye level, his gentle voice lilting through the quiet temple. "Your Mama loves you; you know that, right? And she's very, very proud of you, of the good job you're doing taking care of your Papa. You are doing a good job, aren't you?"

Maniel nodded, his eyes wide and staring only at Vorstag.

"That's a good lad. You know how your Papa has helped you, when you have trouble breathing? He takes care of you, right, keeps you warm and safe so you're not alone? Well, now your Papa is the one who's very sick, and he's gonna need a lot of help from you. You're to be a good boy for him, mind what he says, and do everything you can for him. Can you do that? Can you help him, like he helps you? Can you be strong for your Papa?"

Gerhild's eyes filled with tears. She thought Vorstag was cruel, brushing aside Rhiada like he did, making the boy focus on Argis and his illness. That's what had happened to her, having to let go of her mother's tragic death and focus on taking care of her disabled father.

Maniel nodded. "I can be strong for Papa. I can help him. I keep him warm while he's sleeping."

"That's good," Vorstag's voice broke, and he had to take a moment, ruffling Maniel's hair, before he could continue. "That's a good boy, Manny. Keep your Papa warm. Stay with him, so he's not alone, alright?"

Maniel nodded again. And Gerhild understood. The boy couldn't understand, not at his age, exactly what had happened. Neither had she, right after her mother's death. But understanding would come, with time and distance and half-faded memories turned nightmares. Later, in the coming years, she and Vorstag would have to be ready to answer questions. Yet for today, it was enough that the boy focused on what he had, rather than what was lost.

Vorstag readjusted the blanket of pelts, so Maniel would be warmer, and stood up. Then he, Gerhild and Vilkas left the Temple.

* * *

"I know why you're here," Vignar greeted them coarsely, coming towards them as soon as they entered Dragonsreach. "And the answer is no!"

Gerhild and Vorstag walked shoulder to shoulder, each as determined as the other. They had spent the night in Jorrvaskr, under the protection of the Companions. Hamming was still there, being watched over by Tilma and several adopted aunts and uncles.

But they had business to attend to. Farkas and Athis had returned during the night with their prisoner, brought in secretly through the Underforge, fearing what might happen if the citizens of Whiterun saw him. Gerhild and Vorstag had learned of this from Vilkas during breakfast, that Benor was in the dungeons beneath Dragonsreach, isolated from guards and other prisoners, in case someone thought to take justice into their own hands. She smiled grimly to herself, she had no intention of doling out justice, but she was determined to speak with Benor, and had left for Dragonsreach shortly after receiving the news. She might have preferred to leave Vorstag behind, but one look at his face and she knew… well, she knew what others knew, when looking at her face and realizing she would not be dissuaded. Even Vignar, getting close enough for his failing eyesight to take in the two of them, began to show signs of backing down.

"Lady Gerhild," he started, thought better of it, and tried, "Lord Vorstag, I know this is tragic, but I've already sent word to the High King. I think he should be the one to hear the case, pass judgment on the accused."

"You have the wrong impression, Vignar," she answered, her voice terrible and gentle at the same time. "I'm not going to try him or judge him."

"Oh?" His voice rose, a little hopeful, a little worried. Things were never this easy where the Dragonborn was concerned.

"I only wish to talk with him."

"He's not speaking. To anyone. The Companions who brought him in said he never spoke one syllable. I have kept him separate from the other prisoners…"

"He will talk to me," she replied confidently, Vorstag at her side and looking menacing.

"I can't have you interrogating him," he kept arguing, "Torturing him, threatening him…"

"I promise, I will not harm so much as a hair on his head. Neither will Vorstag. We will simply talk with him, without threats."

"You don't expect me to believe that…"

"I have given you my word." Gerhild enunciated every syllable succinctly.

Vignar swallowed thickly. "Lady Gerhild… Dragonborn… please… be reasonable… you're personally involved in this case… we don't know if he had anything to do with the fire… it would be a miscarriage of justice…"

"I'm not seeking justice," she stated simply. "By all means, Vignar, transport your prisoner to Windhelm; seek the justice of the High King. I will not stand in your way." She stepped up, barely an inch from his chest, and looked him squarely in the eyes, "But I will speak with him. Now. It was only a courtesy that I came to inform you, first."

She turned away from him, dismissing him, and started for the back of the main hall. Just past the entrance to the kitchens was the flight of stairs that led down to the dungeons. Vignar sputtered and bluffed, puffing himself out like a peacock, but before he could utter a coherent sentence, Vorstag put his hand on his shoulder. "Don't." Then he, too, turned to follow his wife to the dungeons.

They were dressed in simple clothing, not the brightly colored silks and satins she loved to indulge in—Gerhild in a serviceable gown of gray wools, Vorstag in brown and beige. She walked past the guards in the outer room. She walked past the prisoners that had been moved there. She pushed open the door to the inner dungeon, where Benor would be, and paused.

Vorstag entered behind her and closed the door, amazed that the guards hadn't even tried to stop them. They showed more sense than Vignar. He came up beside his wife, his love, and put his hand on the small of her back. She lifted her face to give him a little smile, not joyful, but encouraging. Together they walked to the cell at the back of the dungeon.

There was a shadow behind the bars, lying horizontal on the straw pile, dark and unmoving. Gerhild studied it for a moment, taking in more with her senses than most normal people could, before she said in a quiet voice, "Do you know me?"

The shadow shifted, a grunt sounded as the straw rustled, but there was no answering voice.

"I would talk with you."

This time there wasn't even a sigh of movement.

"Answer her!"

A harsh, labored laugh echoed eerily through the nearly empty dungeon, bouncing off the walls, turning ghosty in the torchlight.

Gerhild reached out her hand, settled it gently on Vorstag's forearm, signaling that he needn't interfere, that she had control of the situation. Then she drew her shoulders back, a gesture he'd been familiar with for years, and Shouted.

_"Gol Hah Dov!"_

Vorstag remembered that Shout; it was the one she used to bend a dragon's will to her own. He had no idea if it would work on a person, and when Benor didn't appear to be responding to it, was about to open his mouth and suggest he have a go. But then Benor shifted, stirring the straw, the shadows, into life. He rolled over, not getting up off the floor, but far enough to bring his face into the torchlight.

One eye was swollen shut, the other effectively scabbed over with dried blood. There was another cut on his cheek surrounded by a deep purple bruise, a matching cut beneath it on his lip. When he opened his mouth, two teeth were missing from that side. "No, I don't know who you are. Don't care. Guess I fucked up, so nothing matters. He can't—won't save me from this."

"Who…?" Vorstag started, before Gerhild elbowed him to keep quiet. He made a face and rubbed at his ribs, but he didn't utter another sound.

"What's your name?"

"Benor, of Morthal," was the ready response, followed by a wheezing cough as he struggled to sit up. "Beg your pardon, ma'am, but I'm a bit thirsty. Could I trouble you for some water?"

She smiled at him, gently, playing a role, and brought him a ladle full of cool water. He could barely see, managing to rub the blood out of one eye enough for him to see shapes and movement. He groaned as he half-dragged himself eagerly to the bars. The knuckles of his hand were torn bloody, but he managed to hold the ladle long enough to swallow twice. "May the Divines watch over you, ma'am."

"Who hurt you?"

"A couple of Companions," again was the ready response. Despite the pain it caused him, he seemed more than willing to talk. "Found me on my way back to Windhelm…"

"Windhelm…?" Vorstag repeated, confused, but a sharp look from Gerhild silenced him. It didn't seem unreasonable to her, if Norilar—as they were guessing—had used Benor to get to them, because the last time anyone had seen Norilar had been not far from Windhelm.

Luckily, Benor hadn't heard him and continued as if he wasn't there. "Said I was guilty of murder, and a fire, that I'd missed my target and killed the wrong people, or something. I don't remember it clearly. They roused me from sleep, the big one holding me by the scruff of my neck. I don't take well to people being rude, so I hit him. He hit back. He and his friend. Didn't stop until I couldn't fight anymore. Then they shoved a bag over my head and brought me here."

There were several questions rattling around in her head, but she suspected, if she kept him talking, he would answer them all on his own. "Did you mean to kill anyone?"

"Oh, aye, I did. That upstart, that cheating, manipulative bastard what charmed his way into the Dragonborn's skirts." Benor paused to cough, his ribs burning. "Not that it matters now. I fucked it up, didn't I. Sure, I poisoned the mead and delivered it, just according to plan. But someone else drank it, and then somehow there was a fire… Gentle lady," he groped blindly through the bars for her hand, taking hold of her fiercely, desperately, "The Companions said someone else drank the mead, but a fire started, and now the wrong people are dead. Is that what happened? Did I miss killing Vorstag, and killed someone else instead?"

"Vorstag did not drink the mead," she answered.

"And the fire? Did Breezehome burn down? With the Dragonborn inside? Did I kill her? Ah, Merciful Arkay, let me die this moment." His clutch turned painful. "I didn't mean to kill her. I swear it! I swear it on my life! On my sweet mother's grave! Please, believe me; I thought she was gone from Whiterun. Not that it matters…" his voice trailed away into a bone-deep moan. "He'll kill me. It'll be easy for him. All he has to do is sit back and let justice play out. I was supposed to kill Vorstag, not the Dragonborn, that was the plan. But he's alive, she's dead, and my life is forfeit."

Gerhild did not bother to correct his misassumption, more concerned with getting answers. "Who? Who told you how to kill Vorstag?" she asked, thinking she already knew the answer. "The deaths are as much on his head, as yours. Wouldn't you want him to suffer for his part in all this? Tell me his name, Benor. Who came up with this plan?"

"Doesn't matter, not now, anyhow, won't make a difference, I can't make a difference…"

"Aye, you can, Benor, just tell me…"

Benor laughed again, choking on the pain, but unable to stop. "Who'd believe me, my word, against that of the High King?"

Gerhild froze, her blood turned to ice. By the Nine… by all that was holy… by every sacred and blessed shrine in all of Nirn…

"…was to have ten thousand septims, for my part… killed her instead… gave me the poison… would've bought a lot in Falkreath… how to kill him… I hate that fucking swamp… but that damnable fire… it's all gone to shit…"

She didn't pay attention to his mumblings, not any longer. She couldn't move, could barely breathe, her thoughts—her mind—frozen solid. …Ulfric…

Vorstag reached down and took hold of her arm, pulling her to her feet. "We should go," he said softly.

…Ulfric, her mother's former lover…

"Come on," Vorstag's hand remained on her arm, gently, guiding her towards the door.

…Ulfric had wanted her, no, he had wanted Vorstag dead…

Vorstag opened the door, not speaking, neither to her nor the guards nor the fuming Vignar simmering next to the stairs. He kept in touch with Gerhild, recognizing her expression, that she was too deep in her thoughts to take note of her surroundings. He led her by the hand, literally, out of Dragonsreach and back into the sunlight.

When she came back to herself, it was to find the two of them sitting side by side on a bench. Above them spread the heady, pinkish-purple boughs of the Gildergreen. Half of Whiterun lay before them, the blackened ruins of Breezehome visible to the side. Beyond the city walls she could see the green of the plains, reaching all the way to the distant, bluish-purple mountains. High Hrothgar rose above, nearly at the top of the world, all but shrouded within pale white clouds.

"…fuck…"

"Aye," sighed Vorstag.

"HE'S the one who wanted you dead?"

"Aye."

"Benor is right; we can't touch him. No one can."

"Aye."

"This will never come to court. Rhiada and Lydia and Argis and Maniel will never see justice done."

"Aye."

She was silent for a moment, counting to herself, trying not to lose control of her anger, her rage, her ire. "Is that all you can say, is 'aye'?"

Vorstag settled a hand on her shoulder, his fingers curling around, his thumb brushing the base of her neck. "Can't say anything else at the moment; we're too public."

She glanced around them, a little fearful, a little timid, looking to see who was near, who could have overheard what she'd said, wondering if she had named any names. He hadn't seen her this off-balance since… well, it had been a while.

"Fuck," she mumbled, seeing that they were alone for the moment, though a guard was coming closer, "I had thought it was Norilar, it made sense, like you said, his wanting to kill you, to get to me, to hurt me, but this… this…" Her words stopped before they could be overheard.

He sighed in answer. He could have agreed with her again, but he was seriously concerned she might hit him.

The guard nodded to them in passing.

Gerhild waited until he was well past before she started speaking again. "We can't let this go unanswered."

"What can we do," he asked rhetorically, "Against HIM?"

"I gave him my trust," she continued as if she hadn't heard him, "My loyalty. Without question. My parents loved him, followed him, believed in him. I loved him, as a father figure, a teacher, and he does this to me? To you? To us?" She looked him full in the face, "He's mad. He must be mad. Oh, by the Nine, Vorstag, what have I done? I've put a mad king on the throne of Skyrim…"

"You didn't put him there," he argued, trying to keep her from blaming herself, "His ambition and hatred for the Thalmor put him there…"

"No, it didn't," she shook her head. "He may have led his men to Darkwater Crossing, just before Helgen, but only because he was bait in a trap set for General Tullius. For the war, the real war, he sat back in his palace and let others lead his army, like Galmar and myself. Well before the time Solitude fell, the Stormcloaks were following ME, not HIM…" she broke off, seeing another guard meandering near.

"So, ah," Vorstag tried hard not to eye the guard, but he really wished there was someplace they could talk. "So, this can't go to court. Like Benor said, he has only his word, who it was that put him up to this. And that confession you got from him won't count; you used a Shout. If he told you of his own free will, maybe, but even then…"

"Who'd take his word, over that other man's," she finished softly.

They were silent for a time, sitting there in the late morning sunlight, trying to get their bearings.

"We could…" her voice started and stopped, her cheeks flushing violent red as she glanced around. "We could settle this ourselves."

"No, Gerhild," he shook his head, fearing he knew what she was implying. "We can't do that. We can't even discuss it. It would mean our lives!"

"Listen, I want confirmation," she pressed, "I want to hear him say it. I want to know, before I take any action. Don't you?"

Vorstag swallowed, his thin lips refusing to open, fearful he might voice the treachery that was in his heart.

"It's too soon," she sensed his weakness and continued, "He has no idea that Benor failed. I know Vignar sent word, but we can get there long before the message arrives. We can be there tomorrow night, confront him, get the truth from him, and then decide what to do."

Vorstag sighed through his nose, but he was already weakening. Damn, but the past few days were taking their toll on him. Capturing a dragon, hiding at High Hrothgar, Gerhild restored to him, Alduin defeated, one friend nearly killed, two others dead, their house burned down, and now… treason.

"How do we not get caught?"


	12. The Conscience of the King

It will all be over soon, he thought to himself. Day or night, whether asleep or hard at work or enjoying a meal, he knew the news would reach him—at almost the moment it happened. All he had to do… was wait. That, and bring his daughter a sweet from the kitchens every now and then.

The idea—the beautifully simplistic plan—had come to him just as he was handing the poison over to Benor.

After all, he had ready access to more of the poison, a high concentration of nightshade, thanks to the Court Wizard, Wuunferth. And it was a simple matter to dilute the extract into a mild enough solution that could not be tasted in food, one that would slowly weaken the body, eventually ‘encouraging’ death, especially in a young child. Children were already so frail in body and spirit, a long sickness would be just the thing to remove Friga from this world. And he lived without fear of betrayal; Wuunferth owed him—more than his life was worth—and would never betray his liege, his Jarl, his High King!

Ulfric’s arm tightened a little, where it hung around Nilsine’s shoulders.

They stood at the foot of the bed, side by side, watching Friga sleep. “She looks so pale…” Nilsine sighed, one arm around her husband, the other clutching at his mantle.

“It’s the dark pelts.” Though his voice rumbled warmly like distant thunder on a summer evening, it was all an act, the words he used to reassure her were empty of intent. “Her skin looks paler by contrast. Place her within a tower of ivory, and she would shine like the sun.”

Nilsine smiled, a little sadly, at the imagery. “Oh, husband, such an extravagant thought…”

“Nothing is too extravagant,” he kissed her forehead, “Nor too insurmountable nor too impossible, where my loved ones are concerned.” Which was an entirely true statement, as he did not love neither Nilsine nor Friga. “If it would cure her, if it would even ease her discomfort, I would build the tower with my own hands. She is everything to me.” Which was a complete and utter falsehood.

“I know you would,” Nilsine sniffed, her voice soft so as to not awaken the two-year-old, “That’s why I love you so.” Suddenly her voice changed, falling into a quiet yet heartrending wail, “Oh, Ulfric, tell me she will recover. Tell me she will be alright.”

“She will,” he stroked his broad, calloused hand down her back. “Friga is my daughter, my heir, a Stormcloak. She is strong and brave and will recover from this sickness, whatever it is…”

“I… I’ve felt so guilty these past few weeks…” she sighed, burying her cheek against the fur lining his mantle, “I can barely admit to it, but… I know it had nothing to do with it… but when everyone was here for the Celebration… when that Rhiada woman brought her sickly son… and Friga got so sick afterwards… I thought the boy might have passed his sickness on to our daughter…”

“No, no, you know that isn’t possible. Maniel’s illness has to do with his lungs, and comes and goes. It’s nothing like what Friga is suffering.”

“I know,” Nilsine admitted, “And I’ve felt so guilty for thinking such horrible things, but I couldn’t help myself.” She pressed ever harder against him, clinging, trying to draw his strength into her. “It’s just… they still have no idea why she is so ill.” It wasn’t so much a question, as a statement, a hopeless and despairing statement.

“They will,” again he hollowly reassured her, “They will soon, or they will face my wrath.”

“No, husband,” she pulled back to look him in the eye, “Whatever happens, neither Wuunferth nor Quintus,” she referred to the new apothecarist, “Is to blame. They did not cause her illness…”

Ulfric kept the smirk from his face, thinking how Wuunferth knew exactly what was happening, and how deeply culpable he was in the matter.

“…And they are doing everything within their power to cure her. Promise me,” she clutched the front of his mantle with both hands, pulling him around to face her with heretofore untapped strength, “Promise me, you will not punish them for something they had no control over, something they could not affect. Even if I lose Friga,” her voice broke, tears spilling down her cheeks, “Hurting others will do her no good.”

Nilsine was so emotional, so womanly, it nearly sickened him. Again he wondered why he had ever agreed to marry such weak and unsatisfactory breeding stock. Friga would be no better than her mother, even if the child had been of his blood. No, it was better this way. Kill Friga.

Set aside Nilsine out of respect for her grief.

Marry the soon-to-be widowed Gerhild, and breed in her a race of Nordic High Kings!

“I promise,” he finally answered her, deciding he had allowed enough time to pass to seem appropriately reluctant to her suggestion, “I will not hold anyone responsible for whatever happens. But Friga will recover. You’ll see. Now,” he turned her and started her towards the door, “Go to your own chambers and get some rest. I’ll stay with Friga for a time.”

Nilsine didn’t want to leave, dragging her feet and staring over her shoulder at the child. “I could stay a little longer…”

“You’ve sat with her all day. Get some sleep, or you’ll be no good to anyone tomorrow, much less our daughter,” he kindly argued. For good measure, he added a sigh and curled his brows in a pleading manner, “Besides, I want a turn. I’d like to do more for her than sneak sweets from the kitchens.”

She smiled sadly through eyes filled with tears. “Friga loves those little rolls and pastries. Every morning after she wakes, I feed them to her, and tell her how her Pa brought them specially for her, while she was still asleep, and she smiles so, and wants to eat every last crumb.”

Ulfric smiled back, thinking how it was Nilsine’s own hand that was killing her daughter. “I’ll be sure to have some more sweet rolls here by morning, just so you can feed her,” he vowed, finally getting her across the room.

“What if she needs me?”

“Then I’ll call for you.”

“Will you also call me if she awakens?” Nilsine paused at the door.

“I will.”

She stepped through the portal. “I’ll only take a couple of hours, then I’ll come back so you can get some sleep, too.”

“No, you’ve been staying with her every night since she became ill. It’s time you got a full night’s rest. I’ll send for her nurse to come sit with her, if I grow too tired.” When Nilsine looked like she would come up with another argument, he loomed over her to kiss her forehead. “Off to bed with you. Stay there until morning. As your High King, I command it.” He tilted his head to kiss her lips. “As your husband, I beg it.”

Nilsine was too easily maneuvered, such a supplicating statement having the desired effect and finally encouraging her to leave. She rested her hand on the side of his face, giving him another little smile. “How can I refuse such a deeply personal request? Goodnight, husband.”

“Goodnight, my bride.” He breathed a weary sigh as he watched her walk down the hallway. By Talos, but it made the bile rise in the back of his throat: the way she smiled at him, batted her eyes at him, clung to him. He reminded himself that he only needed a little more patience, another week at the most, and it would all be over.

As Nilsine disappeared around a corner, he turned back into the room and shut the door. He didn’t mind sitting in a chair beside the girl for half the night; he had plenty of work to keep himself busy. As High King he now had responsibility for all of Skyrim, increasing his normal workload by at least tenfold. There were forts in need of men and equipment and repair, roads that needed patrolling, laws to enact and sentences to carry out, taxes to collect and salaries to pay. And there was always his revenge against the Thalmor to plan. They had made him… made Skyrim suffer for years; it was past time to turn the tables and invade their homeland, make them suffer, threaten their race with obliteration.

No, he did not mind sitting with Friga, listening to her labored breathing with one ear while studying report after report. Soon, by the Nine let it be soon, that timid wheezing would grow quiet.

Humming a tone-deaf tune under his breath, he picked up a letter from Jarl Korir in Winterhold.

* * *

Vorstag had done a lot of things in his life—some things of which he wasn’t so proud.

Some things were harmless, embarrassing though laughable, like the tattoo on his cheek.

Some things left other kinds of marks, deep inside where they couldn’t be seen, like the things that had happened during that year in Cidhna Mine.

Some things he had control over, he had responsibility for, he had to face them and say, aye, he had no excuse.

Some things were done to him, where beyond his ability to affect, and yet even though he was guiltless, he felt ashamed.

Tonight fell into a gray category, somewhere between right and wrong, somewhere between justice and vengeance, somewhere between victor and victim.

He thought about it, having some time to himself, how he had gotten to this place. It had started almost immediately after speaking with Benor; for once Vorstag feeling the mad mania that tended to drive Gerhild. They left Hamming with Tilma and the Companions, with the excuse that Gerhild had remembered an apothecary in Riften who might know of a cure for Argis. No one questioned them. No one suspected. They got on their horses and started for Riverwood.

Once there, Gerhild quickly told Ralof what had happened, again giving the story that they were going to Riften for a possible cure, but she wanted to use a dragon so could Ralof please watch their horses. He agreed, never suspecting their true purpose. They made a quick stop at the house; by that time it was evening and the workers were done for the day. Gerhild had taken two sacks out of a chest, handing him one, and rifled through a second chest for a moment. Then they were off once more.

Vorstag could have stopped her at any time, he realized. Whenever she got too focused on any one issue, he had always been the voice of reason. He had always kept her on track. He had always watched her back. But this time, he was right beside her, encouraging her further down the precarious streets of high treason.

He didn’t question how a dragon happened by right when they needed it, or if it was one of the dragons from before or an entirely new one. He only helped her onto its back before climbing up himself, holding her tight as the beast took flight. Now that he had time to think, now that there was nothing for him to do but feel the sting of cold wind slapping his cheeks and watch the world pass beneath their coerced mount, now he began to question himself.

How could he, Vorstag of Markarth, son of Rigmar and Valinna, loyal to the Reach and Skyrim… how could he be so willing to kill the High King? That he was willing, was not in question. His mind was set with a single purpose: confront Ulfric and make him pay. And he had walked the line of treason before, when he spied on the Reach—his home, damn it!—at Ulfric’s behest during the Civil War. Had Jarl Igmund caught him then, Vorstag would have been sentence to death, but it would have been for a higher purpose, a higher cause, a unified Skyrim free of Imperials and Thalmor. Now he was planning the murder of the High King for a purely selfish, petty, even childish reason: Ulfric started it.

Yet there was no hesitation, no second guessing, no backing down. He was going to do this deed; that was what surprised him. He should be feeling guilty, nervous, jumpy, all those things one feels when they are about to do something they know is wrong. And murder was wrong. Cold blooded, premeditated murder was wrong on every level. Yet all he felt was… nothing.

He wondered, though he would never ask, if this is how Gerhild felt all those years, wrapped up so securely behind her wall of ice, aping the emotions but none of them ever touching her.

“We’re here,” she said, pulling him from his musings. It was dusk, more than a full day having passed since they heard Benor’s confession. The courier with Steward Vignar’s message would still be days away from Windhelm, perhaps a week, plenty of time for them to do what they would do. She made the dragon land on the far side across from the harbor.

Vorstag dropped down first, still in his bemused state. He heard her speak with the dragon, asking it to remain nearby though out of sight, ready for her call, but he didn’t pay attention. He walked up to the shore and looked across the half-frozen harbor at the coldest city in Skyrim, perhaps the coldest city in all of Nirn.

He was just as cold.

“Vorstag.”

He turned at the sound of his name, seeing an expression on Gerhild’s face that he had seen too many times before, that he had hoped never to see again. He didn’t know, though he wouldn’t have been surprised to learn, that an identical expression marred his features. She saw it. She knew. But like him, she was feeling nothing.

“We don’t want to be seen, so we’ll wait until nightfall. Open your pack; we’ll need to change.”

“Into what?” he asked, even as she started pulling items out of her pack.

“Special armor,” she answered. “I had it made for you, for us, some time back. I wasn’t sure we would ever need it, but I felt better knowing that, should the need arise, we would have it.”

“The need?” he began rummaging around his pack. Inside he found a set of armor, large enough to fit his massive frame, made from dark brown and gray leather. It was light weight, flexible, and gave off the eery chill he always associated with enchanted items.

“The need for, well, sneaking,” she answered, changing into her own identical set as she explained. “Don’t ask where or when I had it made; I won’t answer that. But it’s special armor, enchanted, to help us remain undetected. The boots are soft leather, so your feet can curl and bend to grip uneven ground or narrow ledges. And they’re enchanted to muffle sound; you could walk over dried leaves or loose gravel and no one would hear you.”

“Even me?” he asked. “You always said my feet are too big. Loud. Clumsy. Stepping where they shouldn’t…”

She stopped him with a brief kiss, passionless and cold but effective. “I love your feet. But, aye, you can’t sneak worth shit. These boots will help. Also, the hood. Pull it up.”

He did so, but was underwhelmed by the result. Nothing happened, nothing changed. He looked at her and shrugged. Then she pulled her hood up, and her face disappeared into shadow as black as night.

“It’s also enchanted to mask your face. No matter how close anyone gets, no matter how hard they stare, even if they held a candle right here,” she put her fist just below his chin, “Your face will remain hidden, so long as you keep your hood in place.”

“Nice,” he graciously allowed. “What does the armor do?” He gave his arms a few swings, settling the leather on his shoulders, enjoying the freedom of movement and weightlessness of the armor. He wasn’t about to give up wearing heavy armor—he was too much a warrior for that—but he could admit there were advantages to wearing light armor.

“It hides your form,” she admitted. “Hold still, and people might not notice you, or if they do, they wouldn’t be able to tell if you were man or woman, how tall you were, your race, anything. Hold still in a shadow, and you’re invisible.”

He nodded, but she could barely make out the movement of the hood. The enchantments were working perfectly.

“When night falls, we’ll make our way through the city streets. If you’re spotted, step into the shadow of a building and hold still. No one will see you.”

“Even you?” he asked, but missed her shaking her head thanks to her armor. She had to pull her hood off, so he could see her face once more. “There’s a thought. If we get separated, and we’re both wearing this armor, how do we find each other again?”

“I’ll find you,” she said softly, taking hold of his hand, “Even if you’re invisible. This armor protects against sight, not against Shouting.”

Vorstag nodded, realized she couldn’t quite make it out, and took his hood off. “I remember. Laas Yah Nir. Alright, so that’s how we’ll get past the city guards. Once we’re at the palace, how do we get inside?”

She smiled, but it was without mirth. “I know of a few ways. Probably the easiest will be the closest, though it means we’ll be climbing.”

“I can climb,” he pouted, affecting the hurt over her lack of confidence in his skills and abilities.

She suppressed the shudder, seeing in him what others had seen in her. She didn’t want Vorstag to be cold, to be distant, to be without emotion as she had been—but now wasn’t the time to fix things. For what they had to do, this cold mental state was undoubtedly much more practical than his usual, easy-going, lovable Nord.

“Then we’ll climb. First we’ll enter the city through the docks. Across a small courtyard is an abandoned house, just beyond which is a walkway that leads to the barracks. We can climb to the roof of the barracks using the side of the walkway. The barracks was built against the side of the palace, so from the roof, we’ll have a simple ten foot climb up the outside wall of the palace to a window that opens into a storeroom.”

“Sounds like you’ve been through there before.”

She shrugged. “You know me; I like to explore, to know my way around an area or building, in case I need a different exit.”

“Or entrance,” he nodded. “Once inside, then what?”

“We make our way—slowly—to Ulfric’s chambers.”

“And then?”

She smiled the mirthless smile once more. “Follow my lead. I know how I want to handle this, how to manipulate him, how to get him to confess. Vorstag,” she stepped up to him, taking both his hands, staring at his deep brown eyes, “I know this will be difficult for you, but please, do not interfere. No matter what he says. No matter what he does. I can handle him. Just stand still and listen, and mark all you see and hear.”

He didn’t give in easily, she could tell by the clenching of his jaw and the thinness of his lips, but in the end he did trust her. He nodded, “I will.”

She kissed him, and he kissed her back. She pulled away and looked around them, at the deepening twilight, at the distance around the shore to the docks, and made up her mind. “Let’s get going, then.”

* * *

The room was dark. A fire had been lit in the hearth, but that had been hours ago, the master of the bedchamber still absent even after half the night had passed. The fire was little more than embers now, glowing softly and woefully too weak to penetrate the deep shadows. In one of these shadows lurked a form, dark and indistinct, as silent as the grave, and just as deadly. It stood protected within a corner, behind a well-worn chair, one leather-glad hand gripping the bone-white pommel of a dragonbone sword. Its features were blacker than black, safely hidden beneath a hood, but if one could see it clearly, they would see that it stared intently at the fire, specifically at the woman sitting on the rug before the fire. Its aim never wavered.

Heavy steps could be heard in the passageway beyond the door, strong and measured, echoing louder and louder. Neither shadow nor woman made any indication that they had heard the steps, and even less of a reaction upon the opening of the door. A man entered, tired and exhausted yet far from sleep. His hand remained on the latch as he stopped, framed in the doorway, his shadow falling into the room before him, illuminated from the torchlight in the hallway.

As soon as he opened the door, Ulfric knew something was amiss. The fire had died down, which wasn’t surprising; he had spent half the night sitting with Friga, so hours would have passed since the servants had last tended his chambers. There should be more light, however, from the lamp in the corner next to his favorite chair. He wanted to turn that way, to lean around the door and see why the lamp had gone out, to see if the lazy servants had forgotten to check the oil. Yet he couldn’t move, he couldn’t bring himself to look away from the rug before the hearth, from the woman kneeling on the rug. He knew who was there.

Praise be to Talos! he wanted to shout. The deed was done! Yet it was so sudden, the very thing he lusted after for so long appearing before him, like a thief in the night, that his twisted and suspicious mind would not allow belief, forcing him to question, “…Gerhild…?”

The shadow behind the unlit lamp refused to move, no matter how familiar the voice, how familiar the name, how familiar the longing tone. It remained, hidden in the corner, unseen and unlooked-for and unwanted.

“I’m sorry, Ulfric,” the woman spoke softly without movement, “But I had to… I had to come…”

Ulfric had never felt his age so keenly. He was sure his heart had stopped beating the moment her identity was confirmed—the moment she spoke! He must have died, died and gone to Sovngarde, to a room deep within the Hall of Valor where his own personal idea of bliss would play out for all eternity. Gerhild. In his chambers. Unbidden. Waiting for him. He glanced behind him, half expecting to find his body lying dead on the steps, to find himself nothing more than spirit, but the passageway behind him was empty. He was alone.

They were alone.

He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him, plunging the scene back into its near-darkness. For the first few moments he had to stop and blink several times, all the while barely daring to breathe. He feared he might have imagined her, imagined her form and her voice, coming so softly from before the dying hearth. The fear was so strong, that he hurried his senses to adjust to the lessened stimuli. He needed to make sure she was there. He needed to see her. He needed her.

“Gerhild?”

Vorstag felt the hairs rise up on the back of his neck, but with a dragon-sized amount of willpower he didn’t react. Ulfric’s call to his wife had been so broken, so pleading, sounding like a lost little boy calling for his mother—visions of Maniel calling for Rhiada filled Vorstag’s head and kept him motionless. For their sakes, he would keep hidden. For their sakes, he would seek justice tonight. His hand closed tighter around the pommel of his sword, the only part of his kit that wasn’t enchanted to remain undetected, as he watched the tableau unfold before him.

“Aye, Ulfric,” Gerhild sighed from the rug, her voice overflowing with sorrow and weariness and pain, only some of it affected, “It’s me.”

He needed no further verification of her identity; only Gerhild could have slipped unnoticed into Windhelm, into his very chambers, without raising an alarm. He could see her now, half silhouetted before the glowing embers, wearing a dress of deepest red velvet, her long hair bound in a single loose braid down her back—so like her mother, Maeganna! His heart ached at the sight, at the sorrow evident in her slumped and youthful shoulders. He yearned to take those shoulders in his hands, to turn her sorrow against his chest, to hold her as she wept. He wanted to rejoice, thinking Benor had been successful, Vorstag was dead and Gerhild had come to him for comfort—but he was not so old and addle-minded to remember that he would have no idea yet that her husband could be dead. He had to lead her to it, lead her to confess her sorrow to him, before he could erase her pain and replace her lost love with his own. “How…” Ulfric took three steps towards her before he stopped himself and shook his head. “No, don’t answer how you got into my chambers; I probably wouldn’t understand the answer, anyway. But why are you here? I thought…” he paused, deciding he should start at the beginning, with what she had been planning to do after her last visit to Windhelm, “You were on your way to face Alduin.”

“I was,” she kept her voice soft, gentle, like the last warm summer breeze before the onslaught of autumn. “I did. Alduin…” ever the consummate actress, she carefully calculated every tone, every movement, every detail, lifting her face just far enough to give a hint of her features to Ulfric, “Alduin is destroyed. Defeated. I am lord of all dragons, now.”

Ulfric’s mind was cautious, and more than slightly confused, trying to reconcile her victorious words with her defeatist tone. The destruction of Alduin should be cause for worldwide celebration, yet she acted as if she had been the one who lost. He considered the possibility that she could have been hurt too deeply by Vorstag’s death, coming on the heels of her victory. He would have to handle her with kid gloves tonight. He finished walking up to her, carefully as if he were approaching a wounded sabrecat, which on some level was fairly possible. “Gerhild? What happened? What is wrong? Tell me, and I promise you I will fix it,” he vowed, taking on his role as her protector and loyal guardian, her father-figure and mentor—the one and only one who could fully understand her and complete her.

“You cannot fix this,” she lifted her face to his, every move deliberate and planned to elicit a certain response from him, to keep him off balance, to slip beneath his guard and catch him unawares. All the time she and Vorstag had been waiting for Ulfric to retire for the night, she had been preparing herself. First she had dressed in one of her gowns she kept here at the palace, stashing her armor into her pack which Vorstag now guarded. As she sat before the fire, she had re-braided her hair to mimic a style her mother had often worn. She also had made tears fall down her cheeks, messing her features, blotching her skin, creating a bedraggled and lost and vulnerable vision. Moisture still clung to lashes enveloping reddened eyes, and when she looked at Ulfric she knew it caused the desired the effect. “Even I, Dovahkiin, cannot restore life, not to those who have lost it unjustly,” she looked back to the fire, “Not to anyone.”

“Restore… life?” he pressed gently, kneeling down beside her, his hands spread open over the tops of his thighs. He wasn’t sure if her unstable state of mind might make her easier or harder to manipulate, so he remained cautious, purposefully obtuse, going slow and forcing her to take the lead. “You cannot mean Alduin.”

“Alduin…?” she blinked at the fire, her features melting into an expression of a lost little girl, “No, I do not mean Alduin.” Again her face changed, becoming something else, something that wasn’t Gerhild, something that Ulfric had never seen before—only Vorstag had ever seen this side to her, the dragon-aspect of her soul. Showing it to Ulfric tonight, however, would serve her purposes, throwing him off balance, giving him a glimpse at how dangerous it was to be the Dragonborn. “Alduin isn’t gone. He’s here, inside me. I can hear him, sometimes, gloating in his defeat… such utter madness…”

“Why would he gloat?” Ulfric asked, thinking it the safer question than asking how she could hear the thoughts of a dead dragon—even Alduin. If her mind was unhinged, which was becoming more and more likely, he needed to keep from making it worse. He needed her, sane or no—he needed her to be his bride, the mother of his legitimate heir. How many times in his mind he had set aside Nilsine and married Gerhild, envisioning their happiness; too many to tally. Eagerly he licked his lips and waited for her answer.

“Everything he lost when he died,” she sighed, still sounding a little distracted, as if she was listening to a different conversation while answering Ulfric’s question, “Is nothing compared to what I’ve lost, even though I was the victor.”

It was frustrating, this slow dance around the one topic, but he couldn’t rush her—Gerhild was never one to be rushed. “What have you lost?” When she didn’t answer, Ulfric feared she was far too deep inside herself, listening to that voiceless dragon, to those captive souls of dragons past, to something he could only understand in part, to her unique flavor of madness. He took her shoulders, turning her away from the fire to face him. “Gerhild, what have you lost? Tell me. I… I want to know… you look so hurt… so lost yourself… I want to help.”

Her mouth moved, without breathe to support the sound, but he could read the name on those perfect, bow-shaped lips. ‘Vorstag.’

“Tell me,” he begged her now, feeling the elation rise in his chest, fighting tooth and claw to keep it out of his voice and expression, “Tell me, Gerhild, let me help you, share it with me, I can ease your pain, Gerhild, my dearest, but you have to tell me, say it, say those words…” By Talos how he craved those words!

Vorstag fought against the cold anger boiling in his chest. He had to remain undetected. For Lydia. For Rhiada…

Gerhild fought the bile rising in her throat. She could hear the eagerness in Ulfric’s voice, how desperately he wanted to hear her say her husband was dead. She promised herself that she would get satisfaction tonight, icy satisfaction, before she put down the mad dog holding her.

Ulfric had continued to talk, coaxing her, soothing her, or at least trying to appear that way, “…I cannot read your mind, my child, please, tell me what happened…”

“I could not bring Vorstag with me,” she started, deciding she should begin before Vorstag did something. She wasn’t sure how much he could take—of having to stand still and watch Ulfric pawing and manipulating his wife—before he broke his vow to remain out of tonight’s activities. It was time to continue the charade. “Alduin was in Sovngarde, feasting on the souls of dead Nords to regain his strength. Only a Dovah could use the portal and enter Sovngarde while still in corporeal form. I could as Dovahkiin, but Vorstag…” she paused to shake her head, her dead violet eyes filling with tears, “He had to stay behind. With Hamming.

“We argued,” she continued, sniffing her nose against the back of her hand, “Of course we argued. He didn’t want to stay behind, but in the end, there was nothing else we could do. The last words I said to him… Oh, Ulfric!”

Ulfric felt her tremble, and tightened his hands on her shoulders. He didn’t see her so much as he saw Maeganna, strong and youthful and full of willfulness. He remembered their last words, how she had not wanted to leave with Ulgaarth, had not wanted to leave Ulfric’s side, had argued against his better reason, but in the end they both knew she had to leave. His lips formed the words three times before he found the breath to ask, “What happened?”

“I went to Sovngarde, alone, defeated Alduin with the help of the warriors in the Hall of Valor. It seems empty, saying it like that; but that’s how I feel—empty.” Her eyes lifted, long and curved dark-gold lashes blinking and setting free the tears. She could tell, Ulfric didn’t notice her acting, the deadness in her eyes, the coldness of her skin; he was seeing only what he wanted to see, only what she made him see: Maeganna. “When I came back, no more than a day had passed. I was at the Throat of the World. The dragons acknowledge me as their overlord. Me. A half-orphaned waif who’d never set foot in Skyrim—in her homeland—until she was nearly grown. I was suddenly master of dragons.

“It should have been a victory!” she sobbed, “It should have been rejoiced, celebrated, in every corner of this kingdom, in all of Nirn! And that’s what I wanted to do. I wanted to go home, to my family, my friends, and celebrate…” She choked on a breath, as if the words were strangling her, and Ulfric pressed her against his chest.

“What happened next?” he urged, even as he stroked the long braid that hung down her back like a rope. “Tell me. Let it out. You’ll feel better for it. I promise, Maeganna. Let it out. Share your pain with me. I can heal you.” He kissed the top of her head, closing his eyes and putting all the care and concern he could into his actions. He would have her tonight; he could taste his triumph, his domination. From this moment onward she would belong to him and him alone. Forever.

Gerhild heard the slip, heard him call her by her mother’s name. So did Vorstag. She had heard that slip before, and knew what it meant, but it would be new to Vorstag, unexpected, something he might not be prepared to hear. Fearing what he might do, Gerhild pushed off from Ulfric and stood up to pace away from the fire. She didn’t go too far, but far enough so that she could take a moment to let her mask slip from her face, to let her expression grow cold and emotionless, to let Vorstag know that she was still in control, to trust her, to let this happen. She didn’t look at him, she didn’t dare take the risk of drawing Ulfric’s eyes into that corner, in case his senses were sharp enough to penetrate the enchanted armor. Yet she knew Vorstag would be watching her like a hawk; her brief break was only to reassure her husband. It must have worked, as there was no toppling of furniture nor Nordic cry as Vorstag charged to her rescue.

Instead, it was Ulfric who stood with her, his hands that touched her, his thumbs that caressed her through the fabric of her gown, and she put her mask back on.

Vorstag shook with rage; he could see the look of lust and hunger on Ulfric’s face behind Gerhild’s back. He wanted to slam one meaty fist through that face, smash bone and tooth, tear skin and flesh. Yet all he could do was wrap that one meaty fist around his sword’s pommel; if it wasn’t made of dragonbone, it would have been crushed under the force. For Argis. For Maniel…

Gerhild picked up her recitation. “I got back… to Whiterun… Breezehome… there’d been a fire… Oh, Ulfric!” she sobbed again, this time turning of her own will to bury her face in his chest.

“A fire?” Ulfric asked, distractedly stroking the length of her back, his hand dipping too low to touch the top of her ass. That didn’t make sense. Benor wasn’t supposed to have started a fire; he was supposed to have poisoned the mead. “Are you sure?”

“You could see the column of smoke for miles. I rode on the back of a dragon, from High Hrothgar to Whiterun, staring at the smoke the whole way. I couldn’t see the base of it, but I knew—I just knew!—it was Breezehome. And I was right…” she broke into sobs again. It was difficult, this verbal dancing, but she had yet to tell a lie while she led Ulfric to his own conclusions.

“That doesn’t make sense,” he repeated, out loud this time. “Why would he… why a fire? How did it start? Does anyone know?”

She hiccoughed and shook her head, brushing the tears from her cheeks against his tunic. “No one could say how it happened. There were only two survivors, Argis and his son, Maniel. The boy doesn’t know, he’s too young, anyway, to understand what happened. And Argis… Argis… he’s been so sick since the fire… came around only long enough to say… they’d been poisoned…”

Quickly Ulfric’s mind tried to make sense of matters. Argis wasn’t supposed to have been poisoned, it was supposed to have been Vorstag, but the two of them were such good friends… “Of course, they must’ve shared the mead.”

“What was that?” she asked, her voice muffled against his chest.

“Oh, ah, Vorstag and Argis must have spent the night drinking, sharing mead, you know how Vorstag loved his mead. They must have gotten too drunk, knocked something into the hearth and set the house on fire. And Vorstag…” Ulfric hesitated, not wanting to paint Vorstag in a negative light, at least not too much yet. He held her close, absently molding her body to his, imagining the scene even as he spoke it, “Vorstag would have seen Argis had been poisoned by something, perhaps the mead, perhaps he felt the poison himself. Even so, even dying, he would attempt to save everyone; you know how noble a man he is… was. He would’ve gotten Argis out first, then the boy, then went back for… Who else died in the fire?”

“Rhiada,” she answered, her voice soft to hide the disgust, feeling her skin crawl wherever he touched her, “My Steward from the Reach. And Lydia, my housecarl from Whiterun.”

“What about…” he swallowed the lump in his throat, threatening to choke his breath, “What about your son?” His other hand was straying to her hips, shifting her stance, lining her up with his front.

“He was with his father.” Again, another truth. Another careful yet misleading truth.

“So like him,” Ulfric scoffed beneath his breath, remembering the sling they carried the babe in, how eagerly Vorstag would take a turn to carry the babe—the man had been too effeminate! He allowed it could have been a suitable match for the Dragonborn, a weak man for a strong woman, but their offspring would be mediocre at best. He was a much better match; he, Ulfric Stormcloak, High King of Skyrim. The children of Ulfric and Gerhild would rule Skyrim for millennia; and Nirn would be their inheritance. “I mean, he probably forgot he was carrying Hamming in that sling, when he went back inside the burning house. It would be like him, always such a good father, willing to do his share, carry the load, tend the fire while you were away.”

“Aye,” she sighed, putting all her love into that single syllable. It was a bit ironic, as truer words had never been spoken while feeling so empty by their speaker.

“Gerhild,” he breathed, his hands spreading over her back, over her scars, “Gerhild, I’m sorry, I am, I know you loved him.”

“With all my heart and soul,” she affirmed.

“But he’s gone now,” Ulfric pressed, “Dead. He and the babe. I know it hurts, Gerhild, but you have to go on. You have to continue, despite the pain.”

“You… you understand this? You’ve been through this before?”

“Aye, I have,” he kissed her forehead, “I know how it feels: to be willing to give your life for another yet denied the chance; to feel as if the very air has been sealed from your lungs; to know the one who would always stand beside you has gone and left a cold and empty space behind.” He pulled back, one hand coming up to touch a fingertip to her chin, encouraging her to lift her face to his. “I know you hurt. Let me heal you, Gerhild. Let me fill that space. Let me love you.” He placed a kiss on her lips, nothing too deep, wary of pressing his hand too vehemently too soon, but making sure she understood exactly what he was offering.

The next question was ready and on her lips as he pulled away, her dead violet eyes never having left his features. “What of Nilsine?”

“Our marriage is a pretense,” he stated so quickly it was almost without thought. “You and I both know she has been unfaithful to me. I will use that as a means to coerce her into stepping aside. If she does not agree to go quietly, then I will publicly denounce both her and Yrsarald for their adultery.”

One of her cool hands settled against the side of his face. Her next words were calculated to be ambiguous, to be able to refer to his current relationship with Nilsine—or his past relationship with Maeganna. “That would cost you, Ulfric, to admit you’d been cuckolded, under your very nose, and by someone you trusted with safeguarding your wife’s life. And it would brand an innocent child as a bastard, a stigma she could hardly be expected to understand much less endure. Are you sure you would do such a thing?”

“For you, Maeganna, I would do anything,” his breath fanned the few hairs that had managed to work free of the braid, his goatee brushing the palm of her hand as his lips moved around his words.

“Anything?” she queried, hearing the slip once more, seeing the light of mania in his eyes. She decided it was time. She dropped her act as she dropped her hand from his cheek, erasing all sorrow and embracing that chilly frostiness within her. “Anything, you say? Would you pay one thousand septims for me? An extravagant and flattering brideprice, I will admit. But it makes me wonder, if you promised a bonus for the death of my son, Hamming.”

For the second time that night, Ulfric felt as if his heart had stopped beating, gripped within a fist of ice. So, Benor talked. She must know everything the worthless mercenary had known. Ulfric again went over what he and Benor had discussed, and knew there was nothing official—nothing beyond circumstantial evidence and hearsay—that could tie him to Vorstag’s death. Though there would be no use in denying what he’d done, he would not give her fodder for an official inquiry. Nothing of his inner thoughts showed on his features as their conversation continued.

“You used a Shout,” he stated simply.

“Gol Hah Dov,” she answered just as calmly, walking over to his dresser to idly finger a dossier lying on top. “It’s a Shout used to bend another’s will to my own. I had thought it only worked against dragons, but I discovered one day—quite by accident—that it also worked against horses and other creatures. I wasn’t sure it would work against a person,” she turned back to him, “But it did. Benor talked.”

“Inadmissible,” he decreed. “You coerced that confession…”

His words stopped when she began laughing, not a joyous laugh, but derisive and even a little staged. “Ah, Ulfric, sadly predictable. Who said anything about taking this to trial?”

“Then…” his brow furrowed, beginning to realize he was being outplayed. Whatever she meant, whatever plans she had made, he was blind to their intent, much less to see a way to avoid them. “Then why are you here? You want me to implicate myself in this matter? Will you use this Shout on me? Your High King? Your Lord and Master?”

“Again,” she sighed, “You’re assuming I want this publicly tried. I do not.”

“What do you want?” he asked, thinking he might as well be blunt, since there were no witnesses, no one to give any testimony that would collaborate her version of tonight’s events. He could always throw doubt on her claims, stating that she was distraught over the deaths of her husband and child, distraught enough to make such wild accusations against him. “Do you want a private confession? Some personal closure? I’ll not say it. I’ll not say I regret Vorstag’s death. He was never the right man for you, Gerhild. He used you, tamed you, forced a child on you, kept you caged and chained; where I would have…”

“…You are the one who would have me leashed, Ulfric,” she sighed. “You wanted a pet dragon, someone with unmatched power, someone who saw you as her superior, someone who would eagerly do your bidding. And I did,” she allowed, “For a time. I swore my fealty to you when you were nothing more than a xenophobe hiding behind his housecarl’s skirts. I set the Jagged Crown on your brow. I drove the Imperials from their forts and slew enthralled dragons in front of every Hold. I conquered all of Skyrim and exiled every last Thalmor from these shores. By every right, I should be High King.”

“Is that it? You want my crown?” he snarled, thinking he had her figured out. “You want my throne, in payment for all you’ve done for me? In payment for all you’ve lost?”

She laughed again, a little stronger this time. “I want nothing of the sort! You can keep your throne, Ulfric, in fact, I insist. Keep your throne… and your wife and your child.”

“Friga is not my child!” There were flecks of foam in the corners of his mouth. His hands shook with suppressed rage. His eyes were hardened steel.

“I want nothing from you,” she went on as if she hadn’t heard him, hadn’t heard the dangerous ire rumbling through every atom of his being. “I do not want to be your wife. I definitely do not want to bear your children. And, believe it or not, I do not even want a confession from you. I already know the truth. Deny it or not, it makes no difference.” She stepped back towards him within arm’s reach, daring him, confronting him despite her words. “I only wanted to see your face. I only wanted to see you, with my own eyes, after everything you’ve done. I wanted to see you for the monster you truly are.”

Ulfric was seeing red. How dare she? How dare she, after all he’d done for her? How dare she defy him, denounce him, dehumanize him? The shaking in his hands spread to encompass his whole arms, as he pulled his shoulders back and took a deep breath.

_“Fus Ro Dah!”_

_“Feim!”_

The two Shouts happened simultaneously. Though Ulfric used the full Thu’um against her, Gerhild’s power was such that she only needed the first word of her Thu’um. His Shout passed through her ethereal form without doing her any harm. The dresser behind her, however, shattered into splinters, and the dossier lying on top burst apart, sending scores of pages flying through the air like a blizzard of oversized snowflakes.

The Shouts were cacophonous, the silence that followed was deafening. Even the settling of the parchment on the floor seemed muted.

Gerhild stood still, her form statuesque in beauty and immobility.

Ulfric panted, his fists clenched so tightly he drew blood.

Then a voice drifted out of the shadows. “I’ve heard enough, my love. Let’s go home.”

Ulfric’s breath seized in his throat. He knew that voice, he knew that lisping, lilting Nordic voice. He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes straining in the dim light, but he could not penetrate the shadows. “Who’s there?” he asked, already knowing—fearing—the answer. “Show yourself!”

“You sound upset, Ulfric.” Gerhild’s voice was calm. “There is no cause for alarm.”

Ulfric looked at her, back at the shadow, and back at her. He turned his body, slightly slipping on a sheet of parchment, stepping away so he could keep both of them in his sight.

The shadow loomed closer, coming out from behind the table and chairs and moving towards the bed in the center of the room. Then it lowered its hood, a kind face with soft brown eyes emerging from the black.

“You… This was a poor trick, Gerhild, trying to make me believe Vorstag was a ghost! Leading me to believe he was dead! Lying to me!”

“I never lied to you,” she refuted calmly, stepping up to Vorstag’s side. “I said everyone in the house died, which is true; Rhiada and Lydia were the only two in the house, the only two who died. It was also true, I could not take Vorstag with me to fight Alduin. Neither could I leave him in Whiterun, knowing that the dragons knew where to find him, knowing they would raze the town to cinders in order to kill my kin. Instead I took him and Hamming with me as far as High Hrothgar, left them under the protection of Paarthurnax until I returned. So the mead you had Benor poison was drunk by Argis, not Vorstag. How the fire started, no one knows. The Companions caught Benor; he’s in the prison beneath Dragonsreach, awaiting trial. The letter Steward Vignar sent should reach you in another week or so. But as you’ve already stated, this will never come to trial. If they couldn’t try you for High King Torygg’s death, I doubt you would stand trial for the deaths of two servants.”

“Then… then why are you here, the two of you? What possible outcome could you desire, if not justice?”

“We came here tonight to see for ourselves, to hear for ourselves, that what Benor said was true. And you did confirm it.”

“I did no such thing!”

“Gerhild said that Argis had been poisoned, but you were the first to mention the mead, not her,” Vorstag confronted him.

Ulfric’s lips pressed into a thin line, his nostrils flaring with his breath as he collected his thoughts. “I will not be talked to in such a way by a peasant from the Forsworn-infested Reach! _Fus Ro—_ ”

Vorstag never heard the end of the Shout. Gerhild shoved him, trying to get both of them out of the way in time, though he caught a part of the Shout, somewhere on his shoulder, he thought. He couldn’t be sure, as both he and Gerhild were spinning through the air, tumbling limb with limb, head over heels. They landed together too, hard, somewhere past the bed on the other side of the room. For the first few moments, all Vorstag could hear through the ringing in his ears was the panting of his own lungs.

“Gerhild…?” The voice coming from his own throat was choked, hardly more than a cough.

He felt more than heard the pounding footfalls, reverberating through the floor beneath him. Instinctively he reached for his sword, his other hand finding the soft and yielding form of Gerhild and pushing her behind him. He didn’t fully draw his sword, the sound of it coming partway out of its sheath enough to make the other man stop.

Ulfric looked down at them, looked down at Vorstag, at his young and strong body blocking Gerhild from sight. But he didn’t see them. Instead he saw Ulgaarth, his friend and companion, the man in whose hands he had entrusted the one woman who meant the world to him, the man who had betrayed him so unforgivably. Then over Ulgaarth’s shoulder appeared Maeganna, her deep blue eyes staring at him accusingly, her lips parted and panting in pain. It was as if she was leaving him again, leaving him and losing their babe all at the same time.

“Maeganna…” he pleaded, reaching out to her, hating to see the way she flinched from his hand, to see the way she clung all the tighter to Ulgaarth, “Maeganna… forgive me… I never meant you harm…”

“You truly are mad,” Gerhild said. “I knew it. Even though I didn’t want to believe it, I knew it. And still, it surprises me to see it.”

“…what…?”

“That’s… what… the third time you’ve called me by my mother’s name tonight. I dare not try to count the other times from other nights.”

“I…” he blinked, and the vision of Maeganna left to be replaced by her daughter.

Vorstag slid his sword back home, but he didn’t lift his hand from the hilt as he and Gerhild struggled to their feet. He kept his eyes on Ulfric, all the while Gerhild reached for her pack, also thrown across the room by the Shout to land a few feet from them. “We’ll be going now, Ulfric,” she said simply, clearly, shifting the pack to her shoulders. “And you won’t be seeing me again.”

They started for the door.

Ulfric was hurt, confused, maddened by the night's events. He reached out for her, not understanding what exactly was happening, but not wanting her to go. “Gerhild.”

She paused at the door, Vorstag’s hand in hers, and glanced over her shoulder at him. “Well, at least you knew me, one last time. Farewell.”

The portal closed with a heavy thud.

“No,” he whispered. “No.” He started for the door. “Gerhild!” He flung the heavy wood open and almost shouted down the hall, but came face to face with a guard.

“Y… your Majesty?” the guard asked, his voice trembling.

“Where is she?” Ulfric demanded.

“Who?”

He almost repeated her name, but thought better of it. “Has anyone come down this hallway, anyone, in the last few moments?”

“No one, milord.”

“A woman,” he insisted, “Wearing a red dress? And a man dressed in… strange armor?”

Again the guard shook his head. Ulfric pushed him aside, frustrated, wanting to see for himself. But the hallway was empty, save for the occasional shadow.

With a growl he returned to his room, leaving the confused and worried guard behind him.

One of the shadows shifted, a subtle play of light, Vorstag in his armor and Gerhild after taking an invisibility potion. As soon as the guard turned away, they slipped around a corner and were lost to sight.


	13. Just Desserts

She had been there.

That’s what Ulfric kept telling himself as he leaned against the door to his bedchamber. He had not imagined her; she had been real. There even lingered that strangely intoxicating and unique scent that was Gerhild, the smell of something floral, something bloody, and something of ancient bones and sunbaked scales.

Gerhild and Vorstag both had been there, had tried to trick him into making a confession, but had been unsuccessful. And then, like the traitorous and unnatural Nords they were, they used magic and enchantments to disappear from the palace.

Faithless bitch.

Son of a Hagraven.

Well, they had left empty-handed. He had given them nothing, no confession, no closure, no satisfaction. They could accuse him of whatever they wanted; they had no proof. And Ulfric would see to it that Benor died in prison before his case ever came to trial.

As he came out of his thoughts, his eyes focused on the disarray in his room. The destroyed dresser created a mess against one wall, but the papers that had been lying on top had been Shouted over the whole room. He grunted, stooping down to pick up the nearest few pages, trying to remember which report he had left there. He usually didn’t leave reports lying about in his room.

He paused. It was an immutable fact: he never brought reports to his room. This chamber, these four walls, were his sanctuary, his refuge, from being Lord and Jarl and High King. So who had left the report on the dresser, he wondered. Who had dared to defy his decree? Curious, cross, and determined to discover the culprit and have him flogged to the bone, he glanced down and read the sheet in his hand.

_“…As long as the civil war proceeds in its current indecisive fashion…”_

“What?” he was startled enough to speak out loud to himself. He shuffled to another page and read the contents that were there.

_“…was made to believe information obtained during his interrogation was crucial in the capture of the Imperial City (the city had in fact fallen before he had broken…”_

The lines on the parchment were familiar to him, far too familiar, not because he had read them before, but because he had lived them.

“By Talos, no…” he breathed. He fell to his knees, scrambling about the room, picking up page after page, hungrily digesting the words, and growing sick to his stomach.

_“…Asset (uncooperative), Dormant…”_

_“…indirect aid to the Stormcloaks must be carefully managed…”_

_“…contact was established and he has proven his worth as an asset…”_

Slowly, page by page, line by line, the truth was spelled out for him in the spidery script of some unknown Thalmor scribe. He, Ulfric Stormcloak, was an asset of the Aldmeri Dominion. He had been for decades. He felt little relief, learning that the information he gave under interrogation regarding the Imperial City had nothing to do with its fall. Even if it had been due to torture, even if the knowledge gained was too late to do the Thalmor any good, he could never exonerate himself of treason, he could never finish paying for his crime. Not while he knew the Thalmor had created the unquenchable hatred within him, and returned him to his kingdom so he could mire the Empire in an unending civil war that weakened both Skyrim and the Empire.

Everything he’d done, had been at the Thalmor’s behest. He was a puppet, dancing at the end of the strings held within their gloved hands.

His whole life—his dream!—was a lie.

One hand held the crumpled pages, the other clutched at his amulet beneath his tunic, directly over his heart and that wide scar running down the length of his chest. By the Nine… By Talos… By all that was holy and sacred and righteous…

A knock sounded on his door, a timid voice barely penetrating through the thick wood. “Your Majesty? It’s me, Sifnar, from the kitchens. I’ve brought the sweet roll you wanted, for your daughter.”

“My daughter,” Ulfric repeated, far too quiet to penetrate the wood.

Sifnar outside didn’t hear him, and gave a huff. “Must be asleep. Not surprising, I suppose, considering all the stress he’s under. I’ll just bring the sweets to the girl myself, tell her they’re from her father…” His voice faded as he moved away.

“No,” Ulfric struggled to his feet. He made for the door, wanting to stop Sifnar, intending to call him back; he would need to add the poison before the roll was brought to the child. But as he grabbed for the door handle, the pages in his fist crinkled in protest, reminding him of their content.

He was a Thalmor agent.

“No!” he shouted, throwing the pages from his fingers, shaking them off like he would a poisonous snake. He loathed their touch, the sight of them, their very existence. He needed to get rid of the incriminating evidence.

He needed to get rid of Nilsine and her daughter.

He needed… he needed… Gerhild…

Gerhild. She had been the one who left this dossier here. How she had gotten her hands on it he didn’t care; he was sure she and her lisping lover were the only ones who could have left it. On purpose. To ruin him.

That had been their objective. Not to confront him over his attempt to kill Vorstag. Not to force him to face justice. No, they had wanted to destroy him, to unmake the very foundation of his soul and leave him leveled. And it had nearly worked—would have worked—if he hadn’t discerned their intent.

“Foolish woman,” he growled low and dangerous, like a sabre cat studying its prey. “You should never have defeated Alduin; your destiny with him was the only thing that assured your continued existence. Now,” he picked up the pages once more, “Your life is forfeit.”

He tossed the dossier into the fire, watching the paper burn and blacken for a few moments. Then he walked over to a bookshelf, reached inside the skull of a troll he kept on display, and pulled out a little black vial. “But first, I need to take care of my own house, before I set yours in order.”

* * *

Vorstag shrugged out of the last bit of the strange armor, more relieved than he would like to admit to be putting the enchanted items away. Though the armor had saved his life, had kept him hidden while Gerhild had confronted Ulfric, the feel of magic always made his skin crawl. Not that he begrudged all forms of magic—Gerhild’s healing spells were all well and good—but it still felt like, well, like he was cheating somehow, relying on magic to protect him rather than his own skills.

Admittedly, he couldn’t have sneaked into the Palace of the Kings without it. He pushed the last boot on top of the other pieces, stuffing them haphazardly into the pack, giving it a few extra shoves for good measure.

“Husband,” Gerhild’s cool hand touched his sleeve, “My love, what is wrong?”

He tugged harshly on the pack strap, buckling it securely. “I don’t like having to use magic, especially this enchanted armor. It felt unnatural.”

“Oh, is that all?” she buckled her own pack closed. She had not only put away her armor, but the rich velvet dress, preferring to wear the more simple gown that was a closer match to Vorstag’s tans and greens.

He heard the skepticism in her voice, and it made him feel remorse. He couldn’t lie to her, couldn’t keep things from her, even if he didn’t understand them himself. “No, I…” he stopped as suddenly as he started, unsure of what to say, unsure of where to start. He looked across the harbor, to the coldest city in Skyrim, encased within colorless gray stones. Even as the sun rose over his shoulder, the stones remained gray and lifeless and devoid of warmth. “We did the right thing, didn’t we?”

“Right or wrong, it was the only thing we could do.” Her reply was unsatisfactory to Vorstag, though it was honest.

“But… to cause someone’s death… in cold blood…”

She paused to look at him closely, her dead violet eyes softening to dark blue. “You didn’t have to come with me.”

He turned to look at her, his own eyes warming to a soft brown in response. “Aye, I did. I was the one he wanted dead. I had to hear him say it; I had to see it for myself.”

She sighed, hearing the anguish in his voice, the regret over his actions. Vorstag had never deliberately set out to kill another person. Aye, he’d killed people before, bandits and Forsworn and the like, but those were done in the heat of battle, in a kill-or-be-killed situation. Not someone he knew personally. Not someone who was supposed to be on the same side. And definitely not where the act could be considered murder. She knew she had to help him find some way to come to terms with their actions last night, even as she suffered the same struggle. “There was no way we could do this legitimately. No way we could make Ulfric stand trial for planning your attempted murder, giving Benor the poison, killing two others by mistake. No, husband, we had to handle this ourselves, quietly.”

“Do you think… I mean, we just left the dossier there. Are you sure he will read it?”

The look on her face wasn’t a smile, though it imitated one. “He hates having anything to do with work inside his bedchamber. He can’t even stand to be called ‘Jarl’ while in there. The existence of the report in his room would be a personal affront to him, and he’ll read it, if only to figure out who left it there. Once read,” she paused to look up at the cold gray stones of Windhelm, “Well, the seed’s been planted. All we can do now is wait for the harvest.”

Vorstag hefted his pack onto his shoulders. “I felt ridiculous pretending to be a ghost.”

“But it was necessary. Thanks to the clumsy and obvious ploy, Ulfric thinks we went there to coerce a confession out of him. He won’t suspect the dossier is the real instrument of his death, not until it’s too late.”

“Will it work? I mean, Ulfric’s a determined man, driven, even obsessive. He’s not one to admit defeat. To me, that doesn’t sound like someone who could be coerced into committing suicide.”

“He’s mad, Vorstag,” she countered, “Insane. The gods only know what he’ll do, once he’s learned how he’s always been an agent of the Thalmor. He’ll be the very thing he hates most in this world. Maybe he’ll kill himself, or maybe the knowledge will push him over the edge—make his insanity obvious to everyone, causing the other Jarls to call for his removal. I don’t know,” she shrugged, “It’s out of our hands now, anyway. Gods willing, there will be a new High King by winter.”

“Did you mean what you said, that you’d never see Ulfric again?”

“Of course,” she hefted her own pack over one shoulder. “I’m not one for making idle threats, you know that.”

“Aye,” he breathed, “I suppose I do.” He turned his back on Windhelm and faced his wife. “So, now what?”

“We go on to Riften,” she started for the hills behind the farms, where she had told the dragon to wait for them yesterday evening.

“Riften?” Damn, but the mere mention of that cesspool of a city caused alarm and apprehension to run down his spine. Worse, he couldn’t keep the emotions out of his voice.

Her laughter floated over her shoulder to caress his ears, a welcoming sound as warmth began to return to her, lending warmth to his heart as well. “Aye, Riften. I didn’t lie when I said I knew of an apothecarist there. Of course, I don’t know if he or his wife would know of something to cure Argis, but it is worth trying. And, while we’re there,” she batted her dark blue eyes at him, “We could take a slight detour through the Ratway, swing through the Ragged Flagon…”

“And meet up with your Thieves Guild friends,” he was already shaking his head. “No, Gerhild, we don’t have the time to get distracted with some little side quest. We need to get back to Whiterun. To Argis and our son and…”

She stopped and faced him, forcing him to stop too lest he run her down. She tilted her head up at him, lifting her chin defiantly, a sparkle in her eyes. “I was thinking more along the lines of, well, removing some lines. And since we’ll be in Riften anyway, and without Hamming to worry about,” she shrugged, “It shouldn’t take too long, probably just long enough for Elgrim to mix something up for Argis.”

It took a count of three before he realized she was talking about removing the scars on her back. “Oh.” He swallowed, remembering how it had felt, when his own Thalmor-inflicted scars had been removed. He didn’t notice how he rubbed at the center of his chest, at a wide scar that was no longer there, and Gerhild politely ignored the act. “Well, then, that’s different.”

“Aye.”

Briefly he thought about his last experience in the Ratway beneath Riften. “But this time, we’ll stay together, in the same room, no matter what the face sculptor says.”

“Aye,” she agreed again, the smile remaining somewhere behind her lips.

They started walking again. “Are, er, are you sure? Are you ready to let them go?” he referred to the scars down her back.

“Aye.” Her hand reached out for his, lacing their fingers together. “The Thalmor are gone from Skyrim, Vorstag. There’s no reason to hang on to these scars, not when I can have them removed so easily.”

He scoffed and kicked at a pebble in his way, sending it tumbling downhill behind them. “I’d hardly call it easy…”

She laughed again. “Simply, then. Or conveniently. But it is past time to get rid of the scars. I want to feel, my love. I want to feel you, your touch, all over my skin, all down my back, and every one of those lines robs me of a little bit of you. I don’t like that. I don’t want that. I want… I want all of you.”

“You have all of me,” he confirmed, “Even if you can’t feel it, you do. Right there,” he touched the fingertips of his other hand over her heart, “Forever and always.”

Her deep blue eyes gazed up into his dark brown, their love returning warmth to both sets of eyes. To both souls. Vorstag bent his neck, lowering his head, as Gerhild lifted her face upwards, her lips parting…

The supernatural roar of a dragon sounded over their heads.

“I think our ride’s here,” Vorstag mumbled, tapping his forehead against hers.

“Aye,” she sighed. “Right on time.”

Vorstag gave half a chuckle at her sarcastic remark. It wasn’t a full laugh, he wouldn’t do that until after Argis was cured, at least. But it was nice, to know he still could feel emotion. Now that their ugly little excursion was over, he could look back on it and see how cold he had been, and the memory made him want to shudder and retch. He wouldn’t, but he sure as Oblivion felt like it.

As soon as they were airborne, he reconsidered the retching bit.

* * *

“Oh, I overslept,” Nilsine prattled to herself, “A full hour past sunrise. And Friga likes to wake early. Though she hasn’t since she’s been ill. But if she’s feeling better this morning, I’ll have missed her waking up.” She continued her mutterings, half under her breath, as her flighty steps stuttered down the hallway. Absently she adjusted her gown and tucked away a few stray locks of hair, all those finishing touches she would have normally done before leaving her room. This morning she did them as she hastened to her daughter’s room, not wanting to miss any more time with Friga than she already had missed.

She rounded the last corner and saw her husband, Ulfric, ahead of her. She was about to call out to him, but he was already stepping inside Friga’s room and closing the door. She paused just long enough to huff and stamp her foot in irritation over the lost opportunity to speak with him, before she started walking again. She thought it was strange for him to be entering her room so late in the morning; usually he was there well before sunrise, dropping off the sweet roll, before his day started in earnest. Yet late or not, he was there to visit their daughter, ever a good husband and father, and she loved him for it.

Thinking of how good a husband he was, made her think of how good a wife she was for him. There were a number of guards patrolling the corridor, each of them trying not to notice her harried appearance or hurried pace. Not wanting to embarrass Ulfric with her flighty actions, she swallowed and steadied her steps into something more measured and befitting the wife of the High King. She lifted her chin and inclined her head to each good morning the guards gave her. The slower pace chaffed at her patience, making her begrudge the lost time with her daughter. But even if she missed Friga’s waking up, at least Ulfric would be there for her.

The door opened again, but this time it was the nurse leaving, along with Sifnar. Nilsine smiled politely at both of them, “Good morning.”

Sifnar knuckled his forehead and darted off, but the nurse gave a deep curtsy, “Good morning, milady. I’ve been sitting with little Friga, ever since his Majesty called for me. He’s just returned.”

“I saw.” She kept walking, hoping the nurse would take the hint, wanting so badly to see Friga.

“There were no troubles during the night. She’s been sleeping peacefully, like an angel.”

Nilsine had to pause and nod this time and accept the comment, though she felt the emptiness in the words. All the times had she heard that tone before, as neighbors and acquaintances mouthed platitudes after the death of her sister. “That’s good to hear. If you don’t mind…” she gestured towards the door.

“Oh! Of course,” the nurse smiled at her. Again, an empty gesture.

The nurse said something more, but Nilsine didn’t pause to hear. She wanted to see her little girl. She wanted comfort from her husband. She definitely didn’t want to exchange palace gossip. She opened the door, softly so as not to wake Friga if she was still asleep, and pushed just her head inside to peek.

Ulfric was standing before a table with his back to the door. He was doing something, his head bowed over his work, his arms moving with slight gestures. Nilsine watched him, wondering, while he finished whatever it was he was doing. When he started for the bed, she saw he held the little plate with Friga’s sweet on it, and that he’d left behind a small vial on the table.

Nilsine leaned back outside, a little furrow marring her brow. She closed the door and called after the nurse. “Wait a moment. A thought just occurred to me,” she panted, chasing down the other woman, forgetting her vow to act regally for her husband’s sake.

The nurse was startled by her sudden turn around, but of course she stopped and waited for her queen to approach. “Lady Nilsine?” she inquired, curious and confused.

“My husband, Lord Ulfric, likes to bring sweets to Friga in the mornings. I wonder, did he do so this morning?”

“Well, no, not this morning, not exactly,” she leaned her head in close to Nilsine’s to confide in a whisper. “Sifnar brought the sweet roll today. I think, because Lord Ulfric was with little Friga for half the night, I think he might have,” she mouthed the word ‘overslept,’ not wanting to say anything offensive against her High King. “Anyway, your little princess has her sweet, never you mind how.”

“Oh, good, good,” Nilsine answered distractedly. “I just wanted to make sure. She does love them. And it’s so encouraging to see her eat anything, even if it’s a sweet. But Lord Ulfric does bring her a roll most mornings, doesn’t he? Ulfric, and not Sifnar?” she clarified.

“Aye, Lady Nilsine. Why do you ask?”

Quickly she realized she was making too big of an issue of the matter. Whatever her own suspicions—not that she could give them thought yet—she couldn’t allow anyone else to get suspicious. “No reason. I just love how thoughtful he is. Such a wonderful husband and father.”

“He is, isn’t he,” the nurse agreed.

“Excuse me, I should go see them.”

“Of course. Give little Friga my love, when she wakes,”

“I will…” Nilsine called out over her shoulder, again forgetting to act courtly in front of Ulfric’s men. She opened the door and entered the room, not sure what she would see, not sure what she was thinking.

Ulfric brought Friga sweets every morning.

Friga would wake feeling better, but by afternoon she’d be ill again.

There was a vial on the table…

Nilsine turned her head, but the table was now empty.

“Nilsine!”

She blinked, realizing Ulfric had been calling to her several times already. He was standing beside the bed, the plate with its roll held in one hand. And she was standing just inside the room, the door still open behind her. “Oh, Ulfric, um,” she shoved the door closed and tried to think of something to say. “Sorry, I suppose my mind is still foggy. I overslept.”

“As did I,” he allowed, setting the roll down on the side of the bed near their daughter. “Come. Sit here by Friga. I’ve got the roll ready for her, but she hasn’t awoken yet.”

As Nilsine obediently approached the bed, she stared at the little platter, its little roll centered so perfectly. There was a drop of some sort of liquid off to the side. Absently she answered him, “No, she’s been sleeping later and later in the mornings. Very unlike her.”

“Are you unwell?” he asked. One of his hands remained at his side, the fingers closed in a loose sort of fist. His other hand reached out to touch her cheek. She didn’t flinch, only because she was too shocked by the turn her thoughts were taking. “You look pale.”

She looked up at Ulfric’s face, at the deep lines etched there, and into his eyes, at the darkened circles beneath them. He appeared tired himself, tired and overworked and worn down from stress. Surely he didn’t look like a man who was… doing what she couldn’t allow herself to think. “I’m fine,” she heard herself answering. “Just tired from all the stress and worry.”

“As am I,” he agreed. “You could go back to your rooms, let the nurse stay with Friga for the morning…”

“No!” she said, far too quickly. She saw his expression darken ever so slightly, and knew she had just shouted at him. Licking her lips, she tried to come up with something to say; the last thing she wanted to do this morning was leave Friga alone. “I mean, excuse me, husband, I didn’t mean to sound so cross. I’ll stay with Friga this morning, and make sure she eats her sweet roll. Perhaps this afternoon, however, I’ll go have a bit of a lie down.” She reached out and took his hands in hers. One hand she could entwine her fingers with his, but he wouldn’t allow her with the other hand.

His expression softened. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “As you think best. I, however, have work to do. So I’ll leave you and Friga alone.”

“Aye, husband,” she ducked her head, letting go of his hands.

With a catlike gaze she watched him lean over their daughter, kiss the girl’s pale brow, and softly speak some term of endearment. He then gave Nilsine an encouraging sort of smile, which she quickly and haphazardly returned, before he started for the door.

Nilsine stared at the roll, at the little platter, at the little drop of something on the side. She picked up the plate, her hand shaking, and stared at the drop, as if by simply looking at it she could tell what it was…

“Don’t forget to tell her I brought that, just for her,” Ulfric called from the door. “You did say it makes her smile.”

“What?” Nilsine’s heart was thumping in her breast, wondering if he meant the roll or the mysterious drop. The next moment she mentally slapped herself, of course he would mean the roll. “Oh, aye, I will, I’ll tell her. I promise.”

Ulfric nodded. “And Nilsine,” his expression grew concerned, “You will get ahold of me, if there are any changes. Even if I’m working, I’d want to know, immediately, if anything happens. Especially if she starts to feel better.”

“I promise,” she responded, again absently. This time she didn’t take her eyes off of him, watching him cross the threshold, watching the door close, listening to his footfalls echo and fade down the hallway.

“By the Nine,” she breathed, feeling the strength leave her limbs so suddenly she nearly fainted, falling down to sit on the floor. She also nearly dropped the platter. The sound of it hitting the floor beside her brought her to her senses. She stared at it, fearing what she would see, but knowing she needed confirmation.

The drop had slid across the bottom of the plate, thanks to her shaking hands, but there was still a trail left behind to let her know it had been real.

Ulfric had held something in one of his hands, something he wouldn’t let her see or touch.

The vial she had seen on the table—the table she had first seen Ulfric at—that vial was gone from the table when she returned to the room.

Ulfric brought Friga sweets every morning, but this morning he’d overslept. This morning, Sifnar had brought the roll. And Ulfric had been here, before Nilsine had arrived, standing at the table, alone in the room, his back to the door, a vial in his hands, the platter with the roll…

“By the Nine, no…” she moaned.

She didn’t know what she should do. She didn’t know what she could do. The idea, the concept, was too preposterous for her to give name to… but it was true.

Ulfric was poisoning Friga.

“Oh, gods, why?” she cried softly, stuffing her fist into her mouth to keep herself from babbling more. She knew Ulfric would have preferred a son for an heir, but he seemed happy enough with Friga. Why would he try to kill her, an innocent child? It made no sense!

But he was trying to kill her, she couldn’t deny that fact. He was slowly and determinedly killing their daughter. The sweet roll was the carrier, and he had made her, Nilsine, the deliverer. No doubt he usually dosed the poison somewhere private, somewhere between the kitchens and the girl’s chambers, but as he had overslept this morning, he’d had to do the deed here. Right in front of his sleeping child!

“No,” she said softly to herself. With a grim face, she stood and took the plate over to the window, yanking open one of the panes, tossing the roll somewhere onto the rooftops. She may have just poisoned some birds, but she would NOT poison her only child!

Shutting the pane and turning back to the room, she wondered what to do next. Briefly she wished for her friend Gerhild to be here; Gerhild was worldly and would know what to do in a situation as complex as this. But Gerhild wasn’t here, and there might not be time to write her friend and receive an answer. She, Nilsine, had to act. And act quickly.

The first thought that came to her mind, was petty and base and spiteful.

* * *

Nilsine sat in a chair, staring unseeingly at her daughter, chewing her fingernails to the quick. She had left the room only once that day, briefly in the afternoon, after she was sure Ulfric had taken an opportunity to return to his room. He must keep it there, she had reasoned to herself. It was the only place where no one would find it, the only place where no one would be allowed to look. But she had looked. And she had found it, tucked away inside the disgusting skull of a dead troll.

She glanced down at her other hand in her lap, the fingers wrapped around the small black vial, her thumb securely pressed against the stopper, and wondered if she had done the right thing.

No, she told herself. No regrets. No self-doubt. No second-guesses. She had done what she had to do, to save her daughter’s life. Nothing else mattered—not even her own life.

She looked back up at Friga, and sat there listening to the child’s belabored lungs attempting to breathe.

How long, she wondered. How long had Ulfric been poisoning Friga? Days? Weeks? How much longer could it have gone on, before Friga died? Was it already too late?

Tears broke free of her lashes to stain her cheeks. She couldn’t accept that. She had to believe that Ulfric had been stopped in time, that Friga could recover if given the chance—she had to believe that, or everything she had done and was about to do would be for naught.

She heard his steps, pounding down the corridor, growing louder with every passing heartbeat, and felt her doom approach with her husband.

Ulfric was tired. He hadn’t gotten any sleep the night before, thanks to Gerhild’s and Vorstag’s little trick. There was only a little satisfaction to be found, knowing that they had failed to get him to confess anything. He knew he’d feel more satisfaction later, when he tracked them down and killed them with his bare hands. But that would have to wait. For now, he had to take care of Nilsine’s bastard.

He’d been told of her strange behavior today, how Nilsine had refused to eat anything, had even refused the supper he had sent specially for her. There was something wrong with the bitch, and since he was playing the part of a concerned husband and father, he knew he’d have to stop by Friga’s room this evening and talk with Nilsine.

By the Nine, but he was tired!

The door was before him, and though weary beyond endurance, he lifted his hand to the latch and opened the door. The inside of Friga’s room was much like he had left it that morning, with only a few exceptions. The sweet roll and its platter were gone, and Nilsine sat in a chair against the wall rather than on the bed next to the girl. Other than that, Friga was still unconscious, her wheezing breaths weak and airy. And Nilsine was still acting strangely distracted, as she had been this morning.

“Nilsine, my love,” he called softly into the room, “I’ve been told you have been unwell yourself, today.”

The door closed behind him with a heavy thump, causing her to start. He saw her breasts rise and fall with heavy breaths, but she refused to take her eyes from the girl. She even refused to answer him. She merely sat in the chair, her legs drawn up beneath her, chewing the nails of one hand while the other seemed to clutch her skirts. Aye, she was sick, sick with worry and stress, her daughter’s supposed lengthy illness taking its toll on the mother as well as the child. Perhaps he would be free of both woman and girl, by the time this was over.

“Nilsine,” he repeated, keeping his voice deep and soft, trying to sound loving and caring. He approached her chair and held out his hand for her to take. “Come. You need your rest, too.”

“I’ll not leave her alone with you,” she whispered around her fingers, “Not tonight. Not ever again.” She had yet to look at him.

A cold chill raced down Ulfric’s spine. Damn, but he was too tired for this, his mind sluggish, his senses dimmed, his reaction time slowed. “What are you saying?” he asked, trying to stall for time, trying to get his bearings. “I’m her father; of course I can spend time alone with my daughter…”

“Why?” she questioned, tears filling her eyes.

“Because I’m her father. I love her and care for her…”

Nilsine was shaking her head before his words trailed away. “No, why are you doing this? Why are you killing her, your heir, your own flesh and blood?”

His denial died on his lips, unspoken, as he watched her fingers on her lap open up and reveal the vial of nightshade extract.

Finally she looked up at him, looked up and blinked the tears away so she could see his face clearly. She wanted to know, she needed to know, how he could do such an unforgivable act. But there was no answer on his features, no explanation spouting from his mouth, no reason in his eyes.

“You are confused,” he said, slowly and carefully. “Nilsine, I love Friga. I would never harm her. Now, give me the vial…”

“No!” She shoved herself out of the chair, tripping on her skirts. She had to catch herself against a bedpost lest she fall to the floor.

“Nilsine…” he elongated her name, his tone dangerous and low. “You don’t understand. You’re confused.”

“I am not confused!” she all but shouted at him. Fiercely she held aloft the hand holding the vial, her tone defiant. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me this vial isn’t yours. Tell me you don’t hide it within a troll skull in your chambers. Tell me it isn’t poison!”

He needed to diffuse this situation quickly. “That vial is mine,” he tried telling her a partial truth, trying to calm her down before she attracted the attention of a passing guard. “And, aye, it was hidden in my room, because it’s supposed to be a secret. I had Wuunferth make a special potion, one to help Friga recover. Only it’s unconventional. I hid it from you, because I didn’t want you to know about it, I didn’t want anyone to know about it, in case it doesn’t work.” He tried to soften his features, to lessen the anger and apprehension in his eyes. “I’d hate to give you false hope.”

She couldn’t back down, not now. Even though his explanation seemed plausible, it was too late for her. For him. Perhaps even for Friga. Briefly she squeezed her eyes shut, her hand tightening its grip on the small flask. “Liar…”

Ulfric had had enough. Nilsine had been moving away from him, away from the bed, and to her detriment away from the door. She was nearing the far wall, moving towards the window, her hand holding the vial outstretched. It was obvious her intent was to toss the extract out the window. “Go ahead,” he said, giving up all attempts to reason with her. “Throw it away. I can easily get more.”

“From Wuunferth?” she asked. “He’s in on this, too? He’s willingly helping you kill Friga?”

“He owes me more than his life is worth. He’ll willingly do whatever I tell him,” he confirmed. She turned to open the window, and he took her lapse in attention to close the distance between them. When she heard his steps, she turned back to face him, but he was already on top of her. She shoved her hand out the window, dangling the vial threateningly.

“Ulfric!” she gasped, even as his hands closed around her throat.

“Give me the vial…”

“So you can kill your own daughter?” she coughed, “Your only child?”

“She is not my child!” he shouted at her. His fingers tightened even more, intending to encourage her to bring the vial back inside the room, never realizing they were having a far more devastating effect. “You came to me with your deal, that we would each be free to take a lover once you gave me an heir, so you could pursue your relationship with Yrsarald with a clear conscience. But I know you had lain with him, well before you brought your deal to me. I know you were already with child, his child. I know you were only seeking legitimacy for your bastard. And I gave it, because I didn’t want the public humiliation, I didn’t want all of Skyrim to know I had been cuckolded by my child bride and a man half my age right under my own roof! Well, I’ll no longer be a source of entertainment for you and your lover. You and Yrsarald can still have each other, but your bastard will not inherit my Hold. That is the cost of your freedom: the death of your daughter.”

Nilsine could not believe what she was hearing.

“Bring the vial back inside, Nilsine.”

It was absurd, this obsession of his, this misunderstanding. If only she had the air, the voice, she would tell him the truth, try to convince him. Aye, she had lusted after Yrsarald, and once Friga had been born she had approached him obliquely with the idea. But Yrsarald had very firmly—and very definitively—denied the opportunity. It was embarrassing for them both, as he confessed he didn’t feel attraction at all to her, or any woman for that matter. When she realized what he meant…

“Nilsine…”

It was impossible to breathe, harder to think, her vision growing dark. If only Ulfric knew how foolish he was acting, how wrong in his assumptions, how…

Her limbs grew numb, her body heavy. She felt a pop in her neck, something that felt irrevocable, and relief swept through her. It was all over now.

“Noooooo!” Ulfric shouted, watching the empty vial slip from her nerveless fingers to fall and shatter on the rooftops far below.

“My Jarl?” a voice called from outside the door. Anxious knocking followed, “My Lord? Is everything alright? May we enter?”

He had to think fast. Nilsine’s body was inert beneath his hands. The window was open. Guards were about to enter the room.

“Nilsine!” he cried, even as he shoved her dead body out the window. “Nilsine!” He placed his hands on either side of the opened pane, panting and staring downwards.

That’s how the guards found him, a distraught husband and father, staring down at his wife’s body, after she had jumped out the window and taken her own life.

* * *

“What did you do?”

Two shadows wrestled in the night, both clad in black and red armor, both skilled in hand-to-hand fighting.

“I did nothing!” the second shadow denied in a fierce whisper as their bodies grew still.

“I saw the smoke,” Aventus stated quietly, panting, holding a knife to Astrid’s throat. “I heard it was Breezehome…”

They were in the countryside, not far from Whiterun, and well off the beaten path. Aventus had found her holed up in a little camp, waiting no doubt for the Dragonborn’s return from her fight against Alduin. He didn’t know Gerhild had already returned and left again. He didn’t know about Argis’ illness and Benor’s imprisonment and Ulfric’s plans. He only knew that Astrid was here, she was here even after the contract on Gerhild North-Wind had been forbidden by the Night Mother.

“It was Breezehome that burned, down to the ground,” Astrid admitted, her knife breaking the skin of his leg next to his femoral artery, “But I didn’t do it. A fire’s too messy, too easily detected, too chancy that she might be rescued before the job’s done. If I were to kill her, it would be quick and clean, worthy of her station in life.”

“Wait… she’s alive?”

“Yes,” Astrid purred. “The fire took the lives of her Steward and housecarl only; she had already left to face Alduin.”

Aventus wasn’t prone to believe her purely on principle, but the Night Mother was already cautioning him that Astrid was telling the truth. “Fine!” he huffed, pulling his knife away from her neck, but not putting it away. She took her knife away from his leg, allowing him to stand up and back away. Yet neither one turned their back on the other. “So who did set the fire?”

“No one knows,” Astrid answered, hating the way she seemed subordinate to him, just because he was the Listener. The Brotherhood had been hers, once. And it would be again. “At least not as far as I’ve been able to learn.”

“So why are you still here?” he pressed, pulling out a small towel he usually used for cleaning his blade. He wrapped the towel around the wound on his leg. It wasn’t bleeding all that much, but he didn’t want to risk leaving any trace of his presence, anywhere, not even so much as a drop of his blood.

“Professional courtesy,” she hummed. “After all, a contract was put on the Dragonborn. If someone else tried to carry out the deed, it is my responsibility as leader of the Brotherhood to find the person and initiate them into our little family. Isn’t it?”

Aventus heard the testy tone to her voice, but couldn’t fathom the source. “Aye, I suppose it is. So, any idea who tried to kill her?”

“As I said, no one knows how the fire started.” She took out her own towel to wipe off her blade before sheathing it. “I’m going to stick around a little longer, poke my nose into a few corners, see what I can turn up.” She deliberately didn’t mention Benor in the prison, lest Aventus decided he wanted to stick around, too, and warn Gerhild that Astrid was in the area. Astrid was still determined to kill the Dragonborn, to claim the feat for the glory of the Brotherhood, and wrestle control of her little family back from the petrified corpse whispering in Aventus’ head. “Why don’t you go on back to the Sanctuary, listen for our next contract, hm?”

Aventus knew he was being dismissed, and it galled him but he had to obey. “Aye. Fine. I’ll be going. But remember,” he glared at her, “The Night Mother said that we were not to fulfill the contract on Gerhild.”

“I remember, boy,” Astrid growled, “Now, you remember your place!”

His nostrils flared, his hand wandered to the hilt of his dagger once more, but he didn’t draw it. He turned on his heel and disappeared into the night.

* * *

Ulfric continued to stare out the window, his face carefully formed into an expression of shock and sorrow. Jorleif was beside him, talking in low and reassuring tones, a hand on his elbow as he tried to get Ulfric to move away from that side of the room. “Let Galmar take care of matters, my lord. He has things well in hand. You need to focus on your daughter right now.”

“Friga?” his voice raised, as if he was asking a question. “Did she see? She mustn’t know. Such a thing… she cannot comprehend…” He craned his neck, scanning the room as if trying to orient himself to the bed’s location.

“She was still asleep when we arrived,” Jorleif assured him, leading him towards the bed, “And I had her moved before all the commotion could wake her up.”

“Where is she now?”

“The nurse took her to Nilsine’s… to her mother’s… chambers… ah, sorry, I don’t know how to say it…”

Ulfric nodded, briefly squeezing his eyes shut in affected grief. Wearily he leaned against a bedpost, feeling the past two days and the lack of sleep catching up with him. “I know what you mean. Thank you, Jorleif, I should have seen to that myself…”

“That’s why I’m here, sir,” Jorleif moved his hand to Ulfric’s shoulder, “To be your friend. To help when you need me.”

“And never have I needed you more, my friend,” he agreed, setting his own hand over Jorleif’s.

“I think that’s all for now,” Galmar’s voice ended any further discussion over by the guards. “You have your orders. Carry them out.”

“Sir!” several guards snapped to attention and saluted. They hastened away, willing to leave their Jarl—their High King—to his grief, and even more willing to escape before his temper could invoke his wrath.

Galmar watched them go and sighed, feeling his years as keenly as Ulfric felt his. He ambled over to his oldest friend, leaning against the bed, looking pale and gray and about to collapse. “It’s been a long day, Ulfric,” he slapped the man on the back, nearly knocking him off balance. Ulfric must be deeply affected by his wife’s suicide to be pushed so easily. “Go to bed. Try to get some rest.”

“How?” he sighed, thinking he should be playing the part of a shocked and grieving husband. “My wife… Nilsine… she just…” he looked up at the window, now closed, and shook his head. “I tried, Galmar. I tried, but I couldn’t reach her in time. I came in tonight, to check on Friga, and Nilsine was already standing there, by the open window. She said… she said…” He didn’t have to fake the shaking of his hand as he brought it up to cover his eyes. By Talos, he was tired.

“Nilsine was ever a delicate creature,” Jorleif consoled him. “I suppose it was too hard on her, Friga being so sick, and no cure in sight. Still, you mustn’t give up hope. Friga will recover; I’m sure of it.”

“Thank you, Jorleif,” Ulfric nodded to him and tried to set his hand on his shoulder. Damn, but Galmar’s slap had been hard, almost bruising. Ulfric found himself not wanting to lift his arm too far, and instead used his other hand to rub at his upper left arm.

Galmar noted the awkward motion, but didn’t comment. “You need sleep, Ulfric. Go to bed. Lie down, at the very least.”

“I… I will…” he sighed, thinking of how he was going to sleep like a baby tonight. “If… if Friga worsens during the night…”

“I’ll send for you,” Jorleif promised, taking Ulfric’s arm and pulling him to his feet.

“And Nilsine’s body… we can’t leave her out there…”

“I have men already at work recovering her. She’ll be back inside, safe and sound, by morning,” Galmar promised, holding up his other side. Between them they got Ulfric to the door.

The door opened, and Ulfric saw there were some curious guards and servants congregating in the hallway, Yrsarald among them. His pride was such that he couldn’t allow himself to show weakness in front of them, especially Yrsarald, no matter what they thought had happened. He shook off the hands of his friends, squared his shoulders and straightened his back, lifted his chin and wiped the sorrow from his features. Without another word, he strode out of the room and down the hall, neither looking left nor right, refusing to acknowledge anyone’s greetings or condolences.

He felt the bile rise up in the back of his throat as he passed Yrsarald, but said nothing. That bastard would be next, right after Friga. He was sure he could find some dangerous duty somewhere that would bring about the man’s death without raising too much suspicion.

Ulfric reached his chambers and stepped inside. For a moment he had a worry that Gerhild and Vorstag had returned for another night of torment, but the room was as it should be: empty of people, the lamp in the corner turned up bright, the fire burning hot enough to warm the whole room. He sighed, indulging in a single moment of weakness to lean against the door.

Aye, he thought to himself, he would sleep very well tonight indeed.

The mess of the dresser had been cleaned up during the day, something he noticed as a new table had been put in its place. On top of it was a decanter of Black-Briar Reserve, the potent distilled mead he loved. He didn’t often indulge, not wanting his senses dulled by alcohol should an emergency arise during the night. But tonight was special. Tonight he had gotten rid of one obstacle, possibly two if Friga would be so cooperative. Tonight, if anything happened, Galmar and Jorleif would handle it and allow their High King to rest.

Humming a little tune, he walked over to the decanter and up ended it over a glass. The decanter wasn’t full, something he frowned upon, but there was enough Reserve in it to pour himself a healthy dose. He emptied the pitcher and picked up the goblet, taking a good swallow as he walked to stand in front of the fire.

A bemused sort of smile played across his lips, an impulse took hold, and quite out of character for him, he lifted his glass to the flames and said, “To you, Nilsine. Thank you for removing yourself so efficiently from my life.”

He brought the cup to his lips, tipped it, and took three healthy swallows.

“And to Friga, may she soon follow her mother.”

Another long drink.

“And… and to Yrsarald…” he had to pause and clear his throat, “Who doesn’t yet know… doesn’t… that he’s… doomed…”

Ulfric tried to take another drink, bringing the glass to his lips, but he couldn’t tip the cup. Instead the vessel fell from his numb fingers to crash and shatter before the hearth.

He stared at the shards, at the alcohol spreading out before the hearth, catching fire and burning away. Wuunferth had described the signs to him in detail, the differences between what a mild dose would do, and a heavy dose. He realized he had just taken a very strong dose of nightshade extract, the taste easily disguised beneath the heady potent flavor of the Reserve.

“You… bitch…” he cursed Nilsine, realizing what she had done. Somehow, probably during the time she was in his room searching for the extract, she had dumped the poison into his drink. The whole time she had taunted him with the vial, it was already empty, her plot to kill him in full swing. One part of him had to admire her foresight.

The other part of him fought to survive. “Wuunferth!” he tried to shout, but it was getting too hard to breathe, his voice nothing more than a croak. Yet he had to make it to his door, he had to call for help. Wuunferth would have an antidote. Wuunferth would know of a cure. Wuunferth would not let him die!

He reeled away from the hearth, trying to reach the door, but the bed was in the way. His vision growing blurry, his limbs stiffening and refusing to work correctly, it was inevitable that he would catch a foot against a step. It seemed to happen almost in slow motion, the door receding from his sight, the floor slanting upwards until it took the place of the wall, the edge of a lower step biting harshly into his back.

Once the room stopped spinning, Ulfric tried to lift his head and take stock of his situation, but his neck seemed to be made from a long taffy treat. His head bounced and wobbled and finally came to rest, staring at the bookshelf, at the troll skull where he had hidden the vial.

“…bitch…” he breathed, his right hand clawing for the amulet on his chest, tucked away safely beneath his shirt and against his heart. He could feel his death upon him, the icy call of the grave, the drums of Sovngarde pulsing in his veins. “By Talos, I… I’ll… no… not like this… Talos… preserve me… Talos…”

One last vision filled his sight: that of a Battle-Maiden, who was as beautiful in visage as she was skilled in battle, a commoner who loved a man above her station, a young woman who was content with their secret love.

“…Maeganna…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there is anyone here who voted in the poll I had up on that other site, thank you. It was fun to see the different ideas, but I will confess I was always going to kill off Ulfric my own way. I hope this hasn’t disappointed anyone.


	14. Fallout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve said this before, but I feel I have to say it again:  
> I have not abandoned this fic! I have three stories going on at once, and yes I did overtax my abilities, and it’s been difficult with three different muses vying for my attention, but I WILL finish this story. It may be a month or three between postings, but I am still working on this.  
> *ahem*  
> Please excuse my rant. Now, on to the story!

Galmar’s heart was already heavy with grief, he didn’t want more.

But it seemed more grief was to be his fare this morning. Wearily he leaned one hand against the bedpost, the other catching the knot in his beard.

He had managed to find a few hours of sleep during the night, here and there, while waiting for Nilsine’s body to be recovered. It had been unsightly, the body broken and bloodied, and he’d ordered the form to be wrapped within silk before being delivered to the Hall of the Dead. He knew he had promised Ulfric the chance to see her, to say goodbye, but he also knew his friend would not want to remember his wife that way.

He had also checked on Friga twice during the night, once to see that she was secure in her mother’s room, and again after Nilsine’s body was recovered. Both times he found her nurse and Jorleif sitting with the little girl, their diligence unwavering. Though Friga continued to show no improvement, everyone was clinging to the hope that she somehow would pull through. Now, it had become a necessity. Galmar cursed softly under his breath, and knelt down beside Ulfric’s body.

Would it have mattered, he wondered, would it have made a difference, if he had also stopped by to check on Ulfric during the night?

There was a small commotion behind him, but he didn’t need to turn to know who had arrived. “By Talos… no…” Jorleif’s voice sounded from the doorway, broken and shattered with mourning. He was doing the weeping that Galmar wished he could allow himself.

The room grew quiet, or Galmar finally noticed the silence. Either way, it made Jorleif’s choked sobs seem thunderous. The guards who had discovered the body were standing off to the side, shifting from foot to foot, sending despondent looks towards Galmar. Galmar himself was hardly daring to breathe, his attention only for his Jarl, his oldest friend. He couldn’t turn away from Ulfric’s body, from the steel blue eyes staring unseeingly across the room. His mouth was slack beneath a goatee peppered with gray, drawing the lines on his aged face even deeper. One hand was clutched over his chest, fingers like talons as if he had been in pain during his last moments, his left arm flung away from him on the steps.

“Jorleif,” Galmar called out, feeling the need to keep himself busy, “Come. Help me get him onto his bed.”

“We could help,” one of the guards spoke up before the others could silence him.

“No need,” Galmar waved them away. “It’s his oldest friends who should take care of this, not strangers. Go and send a message to Helgird, in the Hall of the Dead. Let her know there is another for her to prepare.”

“We should… we’ll need to… inform the other Jarls,” Jorleif started, a little distractedly, as the guards gently pushed him aside so they could fulfill their orders. “There will have to be another moot…”

“Not now…” Galmar growled. By Talos, but he was tired, the worry and stress and lack of sleep lending an edge to his voice.

“We’ll need a new High King… and Gerhild… she’ll want to know…”

“Not now!” he shouted. He finally looked up at Jorleif, and immediately regretted both looking at him and shouting at him. Though he was no longer crying, the old steward was still upset, his face blotchy and the droopy ends of his mustache damp with tears.

“Jorleif…” But there was nothing he could say, no comfort to give. Their High King, their Jarl, their oldest friend was dead. “Help me. Please. I don’t want to leave him on the floor like this.”

“Oh, of course,” Jorleif started forward. Hesitantly he touched Ulfric’s body, not sure where to grab, not sure if touching the dead would be sacrilegious or disrespectful. But it would be worse to leave Ulfric like that, sprawled uncomfortably on the steps, his eyes open and seeing…

“He sees the sights of Sovngarde, now, doesn’t he.”

It wasn’t a question, but Galmar knew Jorleif needed the confirmation. “Aye. Ulfric will dine tonight in the Hall of Valor.”

“How…” his words started and stopped with similar alacrity. Galmar tried to wait patiently, picking up Ulfric’s shoulders as Jorleif picked up his legs. “How do you think he died? Surely he… he wouldn’t… even if Nilsine took her own life…”

“He didn’t end himself,” Galmar growled. Absently he noticed that he was doing a lot of growling that morning. “Don’t ever say that again. And don’t even think it! We both know he was too strong of will to do that.”

“Then… how…?”

“He was acting oddly last night before going to bed, remember? And not just from grief over what Nilsine had done. His face was gray, and he was rubbing at his left arm. And we found him this morning clutching his chest, like he’d been in pain. I think,” he paused to grunt as they laid Ulfric on his bed, “It was his heart,” he crossed Ulfric’s arms over his chest, “Giving out,” he closed Ulfric’s eyes, “Over all the stress.”

“Aye,” Jorleif sighed, taking a moment to stare at his friend, his Jarl, “Aye, that must have been it. His heart. He wasn’t a young man, after all.”

“None of us are, anymore,” Galmar agreed.

“By the Nine…” a new voice sounded, and Galmar cursed the forgetful guards who hadn’t closed the door. “Is he… is he… how… Oh, Merciful Arkay!”

“Wuunferth,” Galmar paused to rub at his eyes; damn but he really was feeling his age this morning. It seemed to take physical strength to ease the harshness out of his voice. “What are you doing here?”

Wuunferth, the court wizard, was panting in the doorway, hastily dressed, his hood pushed off his head and one shoe in his hand. His eyes were wide and glazed, darting throughout the room between brief spurts of staring at Ulfric’s corpse. “I… I heard… the bells are tolling… I saw a body wrapped in silks… someone said it was Lady Nilsine… that she’d taken her life last night… but not Lord Ulfric…”

“Lady Nilsine slipped and fell out the window of her daughter’s chambers,” Galmar invented the lie on the spot. It was probably too late to head off the rumors and gossip, but he was determined the official story of what happened here last night would be as clean and honorable as he could manage it. “All the stress and grief was too much for Lord Ulfric. His heart gave out in his sleep.”

“His… heart…?” Wuunferth started into the room. Suddenly he stopped, took one more step, then half a step backwards.

“What is wrong with you, man?” Galmar barked again.

“Take it easy, Galmar,” Jorleif seemed to have gotten himself under an even keel once more, now that it was someone else’s turn to grieve. “He’s in shock. We all are. And we all deal with it in our own ways.”

“Are you… are you sure… it was his heart?” Wuunferth seemed leery of approaching the bed, yet contrarily compelled to do so.

“What else could it have been?” Galmar groused, shaking off Jorleif’s consoling hand. “He’d been under a lot of stress and worry concerning Friga for weeks now. And then Nilsine’s tragic accident. He was old, Wuunferth, and he’d lived a hard life. Such things take a toll on a man, even a man as strong as Ulfric. It… it all proved too much… even for him…” Damn and thrice damned again! Now he was feeling the ache, the sorrow, the loss. He had to get out of there before he embarrassed himself. “If you’ll excuse me, I should organize a group of men to carry Ulfric to the Hall of the Dead. Jorleif, would you stay with him, until I return? I… I don’t want him to be alone.” He started for the door without waiting for an answer.

“Of course,” he readily agreed, instantly alert due to the drastically softer tone in Galmar’s voice.

“I… excuse me, Galmar, but could I stay for a time as well? Pay my respects?”

Galmar’s hand hesitated on the latch, and he gave in to the urge to turn around and look at him. Wuunferth seemed in control of himself at last, and Galmar could find no reason to deny him—other than he practiced magic. “Aye, pay your respects; take your time. I’ll return in a bit.” The door closed with the finality of a marble tomb.

“I’ll wait outside, give you some privacy,” Jorleif added after Galmar left. He knew that Wuunferth was a close and trusted friend of Ulfric’s, that the two shared some past that they never talked about. It was a past that granted Wuunferth his position in Ulfric’s court—despite the fact that he practiced magic—and assured his silence in any and all of Ulfric’s private matters. Therefore he had no difficulty leaving Wuunferth alone with Ulfric’s corpse to say goodbye to his Jarl and friend.

The court wizard stood still, listening patiently for the door to close. The moment he was alone with the corpse, he dropped his shoe and rushed up to the bed. Ignobly he climbed up to crawl next to Ulfric’s body, his old eyes keenly searching for anything amiss. And, to the deepest, darkest corner of his dread, he found it. There was a slight discoloration of Ulfric’s lips, subtle, but consistent with nightshade poisoning.

“Damn,” he whispered to himself. How? How had it happened? Did Ulfric take it on purpose? Was he too distraught over the death of Nilsine, that he took it by mistake? Wuunferth had stared around the room earlier, searching for any sign of that little vial he’d given Ulfric, but there had been no trace. Yet he had heard a rumor that some sort of black glass was found with Nilsine’s body. Had she found the poison and used it on Ulfric? Had he used it on her, and then out of remorse for his actions took the rest himself? Nothing seemed likely, not to Wuunferth’s eyes, but he couldn’t deny the truth: Ulfric had been poisoned by nightshade.

And he, Wuunferth, was known in a few quiet corners for his interest in nightshade.

How long would it take, he continued to wonder, before someone else realized Ulfric had been poisoned by nightshade? Surely Helgird would notice. And then how long before the connection was made from nightshade to him? And from Ulfric's demise to Friga's symptoms? Or even further…

“I’m sorry,” he moaned softly, spittle foaming at the corners of his mouth, “I’m sorry, my Jarl, but I have no choice. I know, I owe you my life—more than that!—for rescuing me from the Thalmor. And I know you shared with me and me alone your suspicions that Nilsine was unfaithful, that Friga was not your daughter. But you had no proof, and now there will never be proof, one way or the other, with Nilsine dead. Auguries can only show us so much…” his voice trailed away into a pained wheeze.

“I’m sorry,” he continued after a moment, shaking fingers daring to touch Ulfric’s face, to brush away a few wayward gray hairs, to straighten the braid beside his ear, “I cannot let your Hold suffer. Legitimate or not, of your blood or not, Friga is now Jarl of Eastmarch, and I cannot allow her to die. Forgive me. Please, my Lord. Forgive me.”

He backed off the bed without another word. A hand pressed over his lips, one shoe forgotten in the corner, he raced for the door and flung it open. Jorleif gave a started cry, but Wuunferth didn’t stop to give an explanation. He had work to do. He had to save Friga. And then…

He would tie up one last loose end.

* * *

“Oh, Hamming, how you’ve grown,” Gerhild cooed, smiling for the babe in her arms.

Hamming enthusiastically smiled back, his dark eyes deep and overflowing with love. Two chubby fists made circles in the air between them, before one hand managed to snag a wayward lock of her hair. Immediately his fist went to his mouth with his trophy. Gerhild winced—more than was warranted—but tilted her head before he could pull the hair out by the roots.

“Careful, Hamming,” Farkas stood beside her, his thick fingers surprisingly gentle as he freed her hair, “Don’t hurt your Mama. Aye, I know, she and your Papa took a little trip, but you hardly noticed they were gone. You were having too great a time with all your aunts and uncles, getting spoiled rotten.”

Hamming giggled again.

“Oh! Ah, we tried not to,” Farkas continued, defending the whole of Jorrvaskr, thinking that perhaps Gerhild would not appreciate her son begin spoiled. “But he keeps smiling like that, and he likes to laugh, and it sounds so funny.”

“He’s a baby, Ice-brain,” Aela groused, pouting from the tables, eying the mother and babe while trying not to, “Of course he was spoiled.”

“Don’t sit there and act like you don’t care,” Ria taunted over her shoulder. She stood on the other side of Gerhild, making silly faces at the baby. “You were the one who tried to feed him a sweet roll, remember?”

“I wasn’t spoiling him,” Aela crossed her arms. “He was hungry, and no one else was around, so I fed him. How was I supposed to know he’s too young for solid foods?”

Gerhild rolled her eyes, but let the matter slide. “It’s alright, Farkas. Other than being hungry, was he a good boy?”

“As good as gold,” Farkas agreed, his gentle voice a stark contrast to his colossal frame. “Oh, he missed you, that’s for sure, but like I said, there were enough of us here to keep him distracted. Mostly it was mealtimes and bedtimes and naptimes…”

“There’s no such word as ‘naptimes’,” Aela grumbled again. She grabbed a chicken leg and stood up from the table. “Excuse me, but it’s getting far too maternal in here for me. And aye, Farkas, that includes you.”

“Oh, er, thanks, Aela.” He sounded surprised, like he had received a compliment he hadn’t ever expected to hear.

Aela said something gruff and brief beneath her breath before stalking for the doors that led to the practice yard.

Ria giggled, guiltily hiding it behind her hand when she realized she had not only laughed at a member of the Circle, but she’d done so while in the presence of another member. Farkas didn’t seem to notice her disrespect, however, so she dropped her hand and went back to making faces at Hamming.

“Oh, um, would you like to sit down?” Farkas gestured to the bench before the main table, belatedly remembering his manners.

“Thank you, Farkas, but if you don’t mind, I’d rather stand for a bit. We’ve been doing a lot of hard riding this past week, and I’m a little saddlesore.”

He laughed at that, feeling as if he should, but he didn’t pressure her to sit. “Er, you did make good time,” he nodded, thinking he should say something. Of course, he didn’t know what was appropriate to say. Yet small talk was his specialty, or so Vilkas told him, so he talked about small things, like traveling and the weather. “Must not have come across any storms.”

“The weather didn’t play a factor.”

“How so?”

Gerhild realized she might have said too much, especially with Ria in the room, but it wasn’t like they all didn’t know she was the Dragonborn. “We… may have cheated,” she allowed.

“Cheated?” he asked, his brow furrowing, making his rugged features even more rugged. “How can you cheat?”

“She means, she used magic or a Shout or something,” Vilkas quipped, coming up the stairs. He took in the little group with a single glance. “Ria, don’t you have practice this morning? I seem to remember Athis reported that your shield work was a little shoddy the last time the two of you were out on a job.”

“Oh, ah, aye, Harbinger, excuse me, Lady Gerhild…” the young woman managed a quick bow before racing around the table and out the door Aela had used moments before.

Vilkas watched her go, shaking his head. “Unseasoned whelp,” he muttered good-naturedly, striding up to the table to snag a bottle of mead. He absently listened to the conversation as he took a healthy swallow.

“So, ah, how did you cheat?” Farkas asked, curious.

“We sort of used a dragon. Now that I’ve defeated Alduin, the dragons accept me as their lord and master. Any who don’t…” she left the sentence hanging.

“So you just… what, whistle or something, and a dragon comes flying up to you, all ready to ride with a saddle and bridle and everything?”

“No,” she laughed, “There’s no saddle or any reins; we have to hold on to the dragon ourselves. But the dragon wouldn’t dare drop me or Vorstag. And flying is a lot faster than riding a horse, which is how we got to Riften and back in only a week. Here, why don’t you hold him for a while?”

Vilkas turned back to the other two, just in time to see Gerhild shifting Hamming into Farkas’ hands. “Careful, brother, don’t drop the babe!”

“I won’t,” Farkas’ voice sounded defensive, almost pleading, as he deliberately adjusted his hold on Hamming. “I just want to hold him for a little bit, and you never let me, and Gerhild said I could, and I’m being real careful and supporting his head.”

“Hamming can hold up his own head,” Gerhild informed him, amazed at how the babe, who seemed large in her arms, looked like a newborn again in Farkas’ massive hands. “See? He’s getting so big and strong now.”

Vilkas heard the wistful tone in her voice, and wondered if the free-spirited, wide-ranging, adventure-seeking, danger-prone Dragonborn was becoming tame. The thought was preposterous, the image of a dragon on a leash coming to mind, but he couldn’t deny she did look content, smiling at her son while showing Farkas how to hold him.

A twinge of envy directed at Vorstag stole across his heart before he could smother it.

“Where is Vorstag?” he asked after clearing his throat, glad no one had noticed his slip.

“We split up as soon as we reached Whiterun,” she answered, never once taking her eyes off of her son. Not because she was concerned over Farkas’ ability to care for Hamming, but because she had missed him so much. “I came here to collect Hamming, and he took the potion to Argis at the Temple.”

“You were successful then?” Vilkas had reached their side by this time, and despite himself, he had to admit Farkas was doing a remarkable job holding the babe.

Gerhild at last looked up, catching the way the one twin was looking proudly at the other twin. She wiped the smile off her face before Vilkas caught her. “No idea. I mean, we described Argis’ symptoms, and that he’d been poisoned, and Elgrim—the apothecarist in Riften—Elgrim thought it sounded like some sort of paralysis poison. He mixed an elixir that he claims will cure most of those types of poisons, but without knowing exactly which poison was used, or examining Argis himself…” she finished with a sigh.

Vilkas nodded and let the matter drop. “You know what, Farkas?”

“What?” he responded to his brother without taking his eyes off of the babe.

“You’re gonna make a pretty good Papa yourself some day.”

Farkas scoffed. “Like any woman would want me for a mate.”

Vilkas rolled his eyes. “You and I are twins, remember? And women find me attractive, so of course they find you attractive.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Farkas sighed. “I’m… what are you always calling me… Ice-brained…”

“Farkas…”

“No, really, it’s alright, I know I’m slow…”

“That has nothing to do with…”

“Hush, both of you,” Gerhild stepped in between them, putting a hand on each man’s shoulder. She looked to the one holding her son, first. “Farkas, for your information, you are a very attractive—and desirable—man. I know of at least six, no seven women who swoon whenever you look their way. And you, Vilkas,” she rounded on the other twin, “Leave him be! It’s that warm naivety that makes him so adorable.” She caught Farkas’ smile out of the corner of her eye and added, “Besides, I think he knows that already.”

All three of them laughed. Hamming, too, gave a babyish giggle followed by some round-sounding oh’s and ah’s, acting like he was trying to talk with them.

“You’re right, Hamming,” Farkas nodded soberly, “You’re absolutely right.”

“What? Now you’re going to tell me that you understand what an infant is trying to say?” Vilkas sounded incredulous.

Farkas sniffed and shifted Hamming to his shoulder, “Just because you can’t understand baby-talk, doesn’t mean it doesn’t make sense.”

Before Vilkas could finish picking a fight, more out of habit than any real need to spar—Farkas was holding a baby after all—the front door opened. A slim man with dark hair and a beard, wearing the robes of a priest, slipped quietly into Jorrvaskr. Gerhild immediately recognized Jenssen, one of the assistant healers from the temple. She found herself unable to speak, however, staring at him with eyes full of hope, wanting to believe he had come there with good news. The fact that he was here instead of Vorstag could mean either good or bad news, but the sober and empathetic curve to his features bode ill.

“Jenssen,” Vilkas had no trouble finding his voice, and Gerhild didn’t know if she felt resentment or gratitude for it, “I take it this isn’t a social visit. You have news.”

Farkas turned around at this point, his expression full of hope, having missed the signals the other two had picked up on. Jenssen ignored the Companions and looked directly at Gerhild, and seemed to catch her lack of words like someone would catch a cold. He opened and closed his mouth three times before he gave up with a shrug. “I’m sorry.”

“…fuck…” Gerhild muttered beneath her breath, turning aside and physically deflating.

“Don’t swear in front of the babe,” Vilkas chided without any feeling.

“He’s not… dead… is he?” Farkas asked.

“No,” Jenssen sighed, “No, he isn’t dead, but the potion you brought had as little effect as the one Arcadia brewed. Argis remains unresponsive, unconscious, barely breathing. And it’s been two weeks, now. The lack of proper nourishment is taking its toll on his body, not to mention the effect it’s having on his mind. Danica… well, she says to tell you… that you should be prepared for the worst…”

Gerhild nodded somberly as a miraculous transformation came over her. The old icy mask slipped into place to hide her pain, her appearance and demeanor calm and gracious despite whatever turmoil was rampaging through her heart. “Thank you, Jenssen, but you didn’t have to abandon your duties just to deliver this message.”

“After it became apparent the potion wouldn’t work, Lord Vorstag mentioned that he wanted to sit with Argis and Maniel for a time, so I volunteered to inform you of the results.”

“Isn’t there anything more you can do?” Farkas pressed.

“Prayer,” was the simple answer. “If you’ll excuse me, I should return to my duties. Lady Gerhild. Harbinger. Companion.” He nodded to each of them before he left, slipping out as quietly as he had slipped inside.

Gerhild didn’t move, her violet eyes focused on something only she could see. Vilkas and Farkas managed a few half-hearted jibes before they realized she wasn’t paying them any attention. Farkas ignored the way Hamming yanked on his hair, holding the babe fast with one enormous hand while laying the other on her shoulder, engulfing it from collarbone to shoulder blade. “Gerhild? Hey, you in there?”

She blinked and looked up at him, but her eyes remained dark and bottomless. “Farkas, is… No, wait, Vilkas,” she turned to the other twin, her brows twitching with anticipation, “Is that prisoner, Benor, still up at the Keep’s dungeon?”

“Aye, he is, awaiting trial, once Vignar hears back from the High King. What are you thinking, lass?”

She didn’t answer, her deep violet orbs quick and calculating.

“Gerhild?” he pressed, pushing past his brother, feeling the need to catch her arm before she could escape. He didn’t know her well enough to know what she was planning, but he knew her well enough to know it would not be a good plan. “Whatever it is, wait for Vorstag. Please?”

He swallowed beneath the front of dead violet eyes, staring at him with icy nothingness. It reminded him far too much of that time when she had thought Vorstag was dead; a time he desperately wished he could forget.

“Vorstag, aye, I suppose I should wait for him.”

Vilkas finally felt like he could breathe. “Good. Thank you. Good.”

“What’s going on?” Farkas looked from one of them to the other, absently keeping Hamming from kicking out of his grasp.

“Jenssen was wrong, Farkas,” she explained, her voice as cool as her eyes. “There is something more we can do. Something more I can do. I can talk with Benor again. I should have done this the last time, but I, er,” she paused and a small blush flickered across her cheeks. Vilkas visibly relaxed seeing the warmth and life return to her. “I got sidetracked by something else. But this time, when I question him, I will ask him which poison he used. Then we can have Arcadia mix a counteragent specific to that poison. Argis will be back on his feet by this time tomorrow!”

“Ah, Gerhild, aren’t you forgetting one thing?” Farkas tried to point out gently. “Benor might not want to talk with you. Or he might lie out of spite. He did try to kill Vorstag, and he knows he’s as good as dead because of it; he might think that letting Argis die is as close as he’s gonna get.”

A slow smile spread across her features, a smile neither cheerful nor pleasurable. “Oh, he’ll talk, and he’ll tell me the truth. He’ll have no choice about that!”

* * *

Vorstag stood in the main hall of Dragonsreach, a little behind and to the side of Gerhild, neither subordinate nor a bystander, yet close enough to throw his support behind her should she need it. Not that he carried much weight in courtly matters, but he knew she appreciated the gesture. And so would everyone else.

Hamming was in his arms, safely tucked beneath his chin and secure against his chest. The babe was fast asleep, oblivious to the treacherous political maneuvering going on before him. Vorstag wanted to keep it that way, wanted to remove himself and Gerhild and their son from these entangled machinations forever… They could do so, now that Alduin was defeated, but after they had what they needed to cure Argis.

He paid very little attention to exactly what Gerhild and Vignar were arguing about, his mind going back over the day’s events. They had reached Whiterun early in the afternoon, and he had gone straight to the temple to give Argis the elixir. It wasn’t long, however, before it became apparent that this potion wasn’t going to work, and other than the removal of Gerhild’s scars, Riften had once more disappointed him.

He had held Maniel afterwards, talking softly with the boy, trying to prepare him for the inevitable, as Danica had advised. Unless some miracle happened, unless they somehow discovered exactly which poison was used and could mix an antidote for that poison, unless Argis recovered within the next few days…

Vorstag pressed his thin lips into an even thinner line, thinking about it. He was not going to let Maniel grow up an orphan! He had spoken with the boy, talking about Markarth and the mountains of the Reach, and how he and Gerhild were building a home in the mountains near Riverwood, and though it wasn’t the same as the Reach, it was still a very nice place to live. The boy seemed receptive to the idea, as receptive as a not-quite-four-year-old could be. Now all he had to do was convince Gerhild to adopt the boy. He didn’t think he’d have too much of an argument on that score, Gerhild having grown up half-orphaned herself after losing her mother in a fire. The similarities were too strong; he was sure she would be open to the idea. She might even suggest it herself before he could bring it up. With this half-formed plan in place, his steps were a little lighter as he left the temple for Jorrvaskr.

All lightness, all hope, fled his heart upon entering the Hall of the Companions. Gerhild was there, resplendent in a rich dress of red velvet, her hair braided into a crown of dark gold. He could see at a glance that she was prepared for war, dressed in her armor of regality and authority, and armed with her wit and will. Whatever she was planning to do, at least she had waited for him. But what could she be planning? She looked like she had prepared for an audience with the Jarl…

Vorstag had almost kicked himself, the idea coming to him so suddenly; he knew she was going up to Dragonsreach to confront Vignar. She was going to speak with Benor again, about the poison this time, and why oh why hadn’t they thought to ask about it the last time? Well, he knew the answer to the last one: they had been distracted with the news that it was Ulfric who had been behind the attempt on Vorstag’s life. So shocked to learn the High King wanted him dead, neither one had bothered to ask any more questions about the poison, naively thinking they’d somehow get the answer from Ulfric.

“Give me a quarter of an hour to change my clothing,” he had heard himself saying, “And I’ll go with you. Oh, and some boot polish. Does anyone have any boot polish?”

As it turned out, Farkas had polished his boots while he had changed into his finest clothing, a satin tunic of a deep forest green that complimented the soft brown of his hair and eyes. His tight, black leggings of supple leather were tucked into his boots, which were shining so brightly he was sure he could see his reflection in them. He had even allowed Gerhild to add a Nordic braid to the side of his face—something he would discard with the rest of the finery as soon as this distasteful task was over! Stuhn’s Shield, but he hated politics.

He was abruptly brought back to the present. “See to it at once!” Gerhild pronounced, her voice cold and harsh like the arctic wind, breaking Vorstag from his thoughts. He watched her turn around and walk towards him, her features composed and her movements graceful—and her demeanor clearly dismissing Vignar as she would a nameless servant. When she saw Vorstag looking at her, however, her eyes softened and she even produced a somewhat sincere smile. “How is he?” she muttered beneath her breath when she was standing before him.

“Sleeping,” he answered truthfully, thinking she was asking about Hamming. “Hasn’t been upset at all over all the fuss…”

“No,” she resisted the urge to roll her eyes, “I mean Vignar. That’s why I’m standing here, so you can look over my shoulder and see what he’s doing.”

“Oh, ah,” Vorstag kept the blush from his cheeks, flicking his eyes to do as she bid, “He’s already across the room, talking with a couple of guards. Guess your little speech worked.”

She hummed, a tiny furrow appearing between her brows. “I don’t know if that pleases or concerns me. He’s never capitulated so readily before.”

“Does it matter,” he spoke softly, trying not to wake the babe, “So long as you get to speak with Benor?”

She sighed, “It might. I can’t see what he will get out of this, and that’s what worries me.”

“Maybe all he gets, is getting you off his back? You have been very pushy with him, as of late.”

“Because my housecarl and steward are dead,” she countered, her tone as flat as her eyes, “My home is burned down, and Argis is dying. I think I—we have a right to be pushy.”

“I’m not arguing,” he stroked Hamming’s back, more for his own reassurance than the babe’s, “I’m just giving an opinion. The sooner you’ve spoken with Benor, the sooner you’re out of Vignar’s hair.”

For a moment she looked like she wanted to keep arguing, but then her features softened and her hand lifted to join his on their son’s back. “Perhaps you’re right. Oh, Vorstag, I am so tired of this. I just want to go home…”

“Soon, my love,” his fingers captured hers, “As soon as this business with Argis is finished, one way or another.”

 

Unseen by all below, a shadow crept along the beams high in the ceiling of the main hall, a bow in one hand, a quiver of arrows over one shoulder.

 

“You can speak with him,” Vignar strode towards the couple, trying to bolster his stature with his voice, “But you’ll do it here, before the Jarl and myself, and in front of other witnesses. This will be legal.”

“Of course,” Gerhild readily agreed, making Vignar even more nervous. He didn’t like dealing with the girl. Oh, she had seemed harmless enough when she first came to Whiterun, wearing an ill-fitting dress and borrowed boots. But so much had happened since then, becoming the Dragonborn not the least of them, and the quiet girl had grown into an autocratic woman. Her demands, though reasonable, were made terrible by her authority and unmatched power. Gods, he couldn’t wait to get rid of her. And if talking with the prisoner would make her go away, then she could speak with the damned man and get this over with!

But he was going to cover his ass and have witnesses to whatever she might do, just in case she was planning something the High King would not approve.

 

The shadow watched the tableau unfold beneath it, a bound prisoner in rags being led up from the dungeons and made to kneel before the Jarl’s throne. The others walked up to the prisoner, the woman in red moving ahead of the man holding the babe. The shadow made a calculated jump, landing cat-like on another rafter, one with a clearer shot of the target.

 

“Benor, do you know who I am?” Gerhild asked him. She looked down at the man, beaten and stained and yet defiant.

“I’ve nothing to say,” he set his jaw stubbornly, “To you or anyone.”

 

The shadow strung its bow.

 

“I can make you speak,” Gerhild threatened.

“Aye, like you did the last time,” Benor grumbled.

“Inadmissible!” Vignar proclaimed. “A coerced confession will not stand up in a court of law.”

 

The shadow pulled out a single arrow and a small vial.

 

“It isn’t coercion,” Gerhild countered, more out of principle than because she thought she could win the point. “I can use a Shout that will encourage him to speak. And what he says will be the truth, the complete truth.”

“But not of his own free will,” Vignar argued, “And, therefore, it is inadmissible. You have to keep this legal, Lady Gerhild, or anything and everything that happens here today will mean nothing!” He was walking a very thin line, almost purposefully goading the Dragonborn all because he didn’t want to piss off the High King. By the Nine, but this day couldn’t be over fast enough!

 

Three drops of a syrupy liquid spilled from the vial onto the head of the arrow. The shadow slowly twirled the shaft, spreading the liquid over the entire arrowhead, before fitting it to the bow.

 

“All I want to ask is one question: which specific poison was used in the mead? That is all. Once Benor has answered that, he can return to the dungeon and await his trial; I won’t care any longer. But a man’s life is at stake! My housecarl!” Suddenly her voice softened, along with her features, as she turned to Benor, “The father of a little boy. This same boy has already lost his mother in the fire; would you take his father from him as well?”

Benor swallowed, feeling the guilt, the shame, the anger, the hatred—all of it boiling and broiling and building within him until he physically shook with the emotions. Yet his lips remained firmly and obstinately sealed.

Legal or not, Gerhild knew the only way she would get her answer would be if she Shouted. She inhaled, pulling her shoulders back, preparing her Thu’um.

 

The shadow took a deep breath, aimed, exhaled half-way…

 

The next moment happened quickly, but so much occurred that the survivors were almost sure several minutes must have passed within the blink of an eye.

A shield fell from somewhere off to the side. The noise was disruptive and Gerhild turned towards the sound of the intrusion, prepared to berate the hapless soldier who had dropped his shield and interrupted her interrogation. Yet no one was there, the shield leaning against the wall beneath where it had been hanging, as if it had fallen of its own accord.

There was a sizzling sound in the air behind her, a brush of air against the nape of her neck, and she all but felt the arrow as it just missed her body and landed instead in Benor’s throat.

She spun back around, hearing others suck in their breaths in preparation of shouting or cursing or screaming. She didn’t pay them any attention, her eyes automatically retracing the path the arrow had taken, following its trajectory back up to the rafters. She had her own breath ready, her own Shout on her lips, and she didn’t hesitate.

_“Fus Ro Dah!”_

She probably should have only used the first word of the Shout. She had meant to upset the attacker, knock him or her off balance, make them have to scramble to regain their perch, buying her time to discern exactly where the person was and find a way to get them down safely… But she knew the arrow had killed Benor just as she knew the arrow had been meant for her. She was angry and upset—her husband and child were only a few feet from her; they could have been next! She acted to protect herself and her kin, she acted to end the fight before it could continue, she acted to kill.

She used the full Shout. Her aim was too accurate. The shadow was thrown off the rafters, lifted up into the air by the power of her Thu’um, to slam into the roof of Dragonsreach. It was held there a moment, a long and infinite split-second, before plummeting to the floor. There was a sound as it struck the flagstones, a sickening sound of crunched bones and burst organs, of shattered armor and broken weapons, of finality and death.

Time resumed its normal flow at this point, the moments returning to their usual allotment of happenings. A cacophony of shouts and curses filled the main hall, spilling into the various rooms, rising up to echo around the now empty ceiling. Gerhild didn’t notice it at first, her attention on the assassin lying dead in a puddle of gore. Vorstag was also unusually focused, after an initial expletive outburst, coming up to her side.

“Benor is dead,” his voice alone penetrated her concentration.

“Aye,” she sighed, “I figured as much. The arrow pierced his artery.” He didn’t wonder at her ability to have noticed so much in so brief a time. She started towards the assassin, stepping out of the puddle of blood seeping from Benor’s body, leaving a trail of macabre footprints behind her. Vorstag went with, Hamming still in his arms otherwise he would have stood right next to her. Instead he watched from a few feet away as she examined the body.

“What happened!?!?” demanded Jarl Balgruuf, his face blotted with rage and fear. He may be little more than a puppet-Jarl for Steward Vignar and through him High King Ulfric to play with, but he was still a man, and had just witnessed a very gruesome double-homicide. It wasn’t hard for him to assume he could just as easily have been the target, though it was obvious the intended victim had been Gerhild.

Gerhild was looking down on what remained of the assassin, taking in the ebony bow clutched within a squishy glove, the dark red and black armor lying deflated, the mask that would have covered the face but now covered a pulpy mess.

“The Black Brotherhood.”

Vorstag knew the answer before she gave it, though he tried with all his reason to deny it. “Aventus said the Night Mother would refuse the contract, that Sithis would leave you alone.”

She shrugged. “I’m done with Alduin. Perhaps, now that my doom is completed, now that my destiny is my own, perhaps now I’m free game for the Daedra. I know, I know, Sithis isn’t a Daedra, he never had to comply with Stuhn’s decree.”

“But he did,” Vorstag affirmed. “He did, and the Black Brotherhood was told to leave you alone.”

“Obviously, that is no longer in effect. What would make him change his mind?” she wondered aloud. She didn’t feel upset over the fact that someone had just tried to kill her; that emotion had faded with the others, Shouted out of her along with her Thu’um. Now she only felt cold interest in the mystery set before her feet. “Could Stuhn… now that I’m finished with Alduin, could Stuhn have withdrawn his protection?”

As soon as she said the words, she knew they were not true. Even before Vorstag finished speaking, she knew the answer just as he did. “No, Stuhn has not abandoned you. The shield, remember? The shield fell, just before the arrow was fired. The shield fell, and you turned, and the arrow that was meant for you killed Benor. Stuhn is still protecting you.”

“Thank the Nine,” Vignar breathed.

Vorstag nearly jumped, forgetting in all the excitement and danger that there were others around them, that their conversation was not private. He cursed his wayward tongue and forgetful brain, thinking that he might have said something that Gerhild would have preferred to keep to themselves, but she didn’t turn and reprimand him. She faced Vignar, once more calm and in control of a rampantly unmanageable situation. “Thank Stuhn. Once more the old Norse god has spared my life.”

“Aye,” he groused, “But at what cost? And for what purpose? The prisoner is dead, the assassin as well, and we are left with even more questions than when today started!”

Gerhild didn’t even bat an eye. “It seems we are both dissatisfied with the day’s results. You have a mess to clean up, and I have a housecarl who will die before the week is out.”

Vignar’s face reddened beneath his white beard, hearing the scolding tone through the dryness. “Lady Gerhild, I meant no disrespect against you or those within your employ. Of course, ah, the man, um…”

“Argis,” she supplied, “His name is Argis. And his son is named Maniel. And they are more than employees; they are my friends. As were Rhiada and Lydia who died in the fire.”

“We should go,” Vorstag touched her arm, Hamming tucked securely in his other arm, “Give them a chance to clean the mess. Vilkas said we could stay in Jorrvaskr until this is over; I think we should take him up on his offer. Sounds more secure than staying here, at any rate,” he pointedly looked at what remained of the assassin.

Vignar sputtered and spurted, but the couple were already walking out of Dragonsreach before he could form a response.

Outside in the evening air, a cool summer breeze tugging his hear and cleaning the rancid smell of blood from his nose, Vorstag visibly relaxed. “Fuck.”

Gerhild laughed, softly and somewhat sadly, but it was genuine. “I think you insulted Vignar, but considering he didn’t want us staying at the Keep in the first place, I don’t think he’ll make an issue of it. Nice touch, though, pointing out the assassin’s body like that, and the apparent lack of security at the Keep.”

“I forgot myself,” the usually easy-going Nord admitted, a little shamefacedly. “It’s only that I got so tired of listening to him bluster and fume, and he kept trying to get in our way, and couldn’t be bothered to remember Argis’ name…”

“I know, husband, I know,” she laid a settling hand on his arm, leaning against his shoulder as they walked down the steps towards the rest of the city. “But Vignar is caught in a difficult place. He has to do what he thinks Ulfric would want him to do. And, aye, we all know Ulfric would indulge me, like he did when I wanted to use Dragonsreach to capture a dragon. But this isn’t Dragonborn business, this is personal, and Vignar has to be careful not to overstep his bounds, perhaps thinking that Ulfric might’ve wanted a crack at Benor himself.

“None of that matters now,” she continued, pausing beneath the Gildergreen. “With Benor dead, and Ulfric determined to see you dead, there’s no one who can tell us what poison was used…”

“No way to save Argis,” he regrettably agreed, lifting his eyes to look over her shoulder at the temple doors.

Hamming fussed in his sleep, stirring enough to open his eyes, and Vorstag settled his hand on the babe's back. Reassured by his father’s heartbeat and familiar scent, he quickly drifted off to sleep once more.

“Vorstag,” she stopped him before he could resume his steps towards Jorrvaskr. “Vorstag, I want to talk with you about something. We should… we ought to starting thinking… about making plans… about, well, Maniel…”

“Been thinking about him, too,” he nodded, but Gerhild was already pushing herself to continue speaking.

“I know he’s a Breton, that Argis isn’t his biological father, but he’s also just a boy, a little boy about to become an orphan. I… I knew his father, his real father—I was in part responsible for his death. It’s why I hired Rhiada as my steward. Now, it seems I’m part to blame for her death, as well. And Argis’ death.”

“Those deaths weren’t your fault,” he denied, “Not even his father’s death…”

But she wasn’t hearing him, wasn’t listening, determined to say her piece. “I don’t want Maniel to grow up an orphan. I… I want to adopt him… should worse come to worse. I don’t want to leave him without a home, or a family, or…”

“He won’t be without a home,” Vorstag vowed, finally getting through to her. “I want the same thing, Gerhild. I’ve already talked with Maniel about it, about coming to live with us up near Riverwood, how it’s a little like Markarth, with the mountains and the views. He seemed to like the idea.”

“You… you’d want to…?”

“Argis was my friend, too,” he said softly. “IS my friend. And Maniel is as much his son as Hamming is mine. I know, if the situation was reversed, he’d do the same for me. Aye, if the worst happens,” he vainly held on to the hope that a miracle would save Argis, “We’ll take Maniel in. Adopt him. Give Hamming an older brother.”

Gerhild couldn’t explain exactly why there were tears in her eyes, but the salty drops refused to leave. After all that had happened that day, the hard travel back from Riften, the happy reunion with Hamming, the bitter disappointment with Argis, the unexpected deaths of Benor and the assassin… Alright, so perhaps she did have an idea or two why she was crying. “Oh, husband, I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he kissed her cheek, holding Hamming in one arm and her in the other. “I love you both.”


	15. Hope

“FUCK!”

Aventus knew things were bad, even before he entered the Sanctuary. The main door was never left open, could never be left open. Yet there it hung, off its hinges, in some places splintered through with a sword or an axe or some such weapon.

And smoke was boiling out of the entrance. Oily black smoke, laden with the stench of burning flesh.

And the Night Mother was screaming inside his head, her thoughts deafening and superimposed over each other until he couldn’t understand a single word… only panic!

“Fuck!” he gasped, choking on the smoke. But he knew he had to go inside, he had to find the Night Mother and save her, even if he couldn’t save anyone else.

Aventus lunged into the dark and smoky tunnel, trusting his steps to memory more than sight. It wasn’t long before he stumbled over something and nearly pitched headfirst into the wall. He bent over, blinking through the hazy shadows, and saw it was a dead body, a soldier. Quickly he came to the conclusion that, though he may know the Sanctuary like the back of his hand, the smoke was disorienting and there would no doubt be more bodies strewn in his path. He decided to hold a hand out along the wall for guidance and support, and pushed his way forward.

He moved as quickly as he could, trying to hear over the Night Mother’s screams for any sign or sound of a survivor. In Astrid’s room he found three soldiers, alive, though only for a few more moments. His blade was quick, their deaths quicker, and in less than a minute he was back onto the spiraling stairway descending towards the main part of the lair.

When he reached the base of the stairs, he was confronted with a room filled with smoke, the way a thick soup fills a bowl. He could no longer rely on his eyes to see what was happening, but the haze did nothing to stop the sounds from penetrating his ears. For a few moments, the Night Mother quieted, sensing he was near enough to save her now, and the gruesome sounds of battle could be heard. He found himself wishing her screams would return.

There was the crunch of clothing and leather being ripped, flesh being sliced away, bone being torn apart. Aventus stumbled forward, foregoing the wall in an effort to reach the sounds, harsh cries and commands of soldiers, the ringing of struck steel, and at long last the howl of a werewolf.

Just as the scene was taking shape, Aventus knew he was too late to save Arnbjorn. The werewolf’s maw was still filled with gore, flesh and veins dangling from between his teeth, blood soaked into his fur beneath his chin, his victim already turning cold at his feet. Yet two more men stood around him, one with his sword thrust through Arnbjorn’s chest, the other with his sword through Arnbjorn’s neck. The werewolf gave one gurgling, concluding, lamentable howl of pain and anger and rage and loss. The soldier with his sword in his neck gave a twist, and Arnbjorn’s head tore off his body.

Aventus didn’t think, he acted. Daggers twirling, his body danced and leaped through the smoke and into the air. He twisted, throwing his arms out to cut the chains of oil filled lamps, sending them crashing to the floor. The lamps burst open, spraying their oil onto the men and the flames, connecting the two, uniting them with their deaths. All were touched by the thirsty liquid, soldier and assassin, man and werewolf, dead and living. All but Aventus, who landed safely clear of the mess on the far side of the room. He didn’t wait around to watch them die, but trusted their deaths to the oil and raced onwards through the Sanctuary.

He kept finding dead bodies, friend and foe, some in a pile, some singly. His only bright light of the whole affair was finding Nazir, still alive and fighting a half-dozen soldiers. Again Aventus acted without thought, his instincts in full flight, his daggers deadly, his aim true and final. The two surviving Brothers had the advantage—seeing as every other member was apparently dead, they could kill discriminately, not having to worry about striking a friend, their weapons sharp and thirsting for blood.

In the end, Aventus and Nazir were the only two left standing, panting through the smoke, struggling for breath and their bearings.

“Where’s Astrid!” Nazir was the first to find his voice, demanding more than asking.

“Whiterun,” Aventus coughed. “There was an attempt on the Dragonborn’s life. Astrid said she’d try to find out who it was, to recruit them.” He paused to wipe stinging tears from his bloodshot eyes.

“Have you seen…”

“Everyone I've found so far is dead!” Aventus answered before Nazir could finish speaking. He was angry, upset, and scared as all Oblivion, and hating himself for feeling lost and weak and frightened like he did when he was younger, after his parents died, helpless in Grelod the Kind’s evil grasp…

“Pull yourself together!” Nazir shouted at him, shaking him by the shoulder. “We’ve got to find out who betrayed us. And make no mistake; someone did betray us, someone led these soldiers here, and we must find out who. You said Astrid is in Whiterun. That someone tried to kill the Dragonborn?”

He nodded. “They missed,” he wheezed. “She had already left to fight Alduin, her and her husband. But someone burned down her home, killing her steward and a housecarl. The Night Mother wanted me to make sure Lady Gerhild was… Fuck!”

“What is it now?” Nazir demanded, but he was speaking to Aventus’ back. Aventus didn’t bother trying to explain, racing for the Night Mother’s coffin. He had almost forgotten about her, in all the smoke and battle and noise. But she was still there, in the back of his mind, her cries died down into a mild whimper.

Nazir was right behind him, still shouting, “What did the Night Mother want you to do? Did she send you to Whiterun?”

“She knew Astrid left the Sanctuary,” he explained while they ran. “She feared Astrid would fulfill the contract on the Dragonborn, the one that Sithis denied. She sent me there to warn Lady Gerhild, but I was too late. Someone had already tried to kill her, with a fire, but they failed because she had left to face Alduin. I found Astrid there, but she claimed she was only interested in who was trying to fulfill a Brotherhood contract, not kill the Dragonborn herself. She sent me back here.”

“Astrid sent you back here?” Nazir pressed for clarification, his eyes narrowing.

Aventus heard the flat and deadly tone in his voice, pausing as he opened the door to the Night Mother’s chambers. “You think Astrid…?”

“It’s possible,” Nazir huffed. “Open the damn door already!”

He yanked on the latch, pulling the portal open. Babette was inside, daggers and fangs bared at a man twice her size, placing herself between him and the coffin. Aventus darted forward, unthinkingly once more, but Nazir headed him off. The more experienced Brother leaped and swung, adding the momentum of his jump to the swinging of his hand, pummeling the hilt of his dagger into the soldier’s jaw.

The soldier dropped like a stone.

“You wanna explain why he’s not dead?” Aventus demanded, pointing at the man cradling a broken jaw, forgetting his junior position.

“You want to know who betrayed us?” Nazir countered.

“He’s right, Aventus,” Babette laid a comforting hand on his arm. “We have been betrayed; we must know by whom.”

 _“Listen to them, my son, as you would listen to me,”_ the Night Mother’s voice cooed in his head. She still sounded tense and upset, but was trying to appear calm for his sake.

“Fine!” he groused, “But this isn’t the time or the place. The Sanctuary’s burning down around us. More soldiers could be coming.”

“Good point,” Nazir nodded. He turned to the man on the ground and demanded, “Are there more soldiers coming?”

The man tried to shake his head, made a face, and grunted negatively.

“Let’s get out of here anyway,” Babette nervously eyed the flames flickering through the tinted glass window. “I’m not partial to fire.”

“Agreed,” Aventus jumped at the chance to get away from the smoke and heat, and to ease any discomfort or fears the Night Mother might have about burning to ash. Quickly he found a length of cord and tied their prisoner’s hands, giving the end to Babette to hold. Then he and Nazir picked up the Night Mother’s coffin, and began to make their way out of the Sanctuary.

By the time they reached the outside, the sun had fallen. The odd troop walked for some distance into the woods, heading towards Falkreath, not to find shelter but to find some few essentials, like healing potions and a cart for the coffin. They holed up in a little hollow behind the Hall of the Dead, sheltered for the night from the elements.

“You ready to talk yet?” Nazir asked, kicking the man’s leg.

“…can’t…” he grimaced, trying not to move his jaw.

“It’s alright,” Aventus leaned over him, “I only want to know one thing. Who betrayed us? Who told you where to find the Sanctuary?”

The man made a face, and though sounds came out, there was nothing that was intelligible.

“This is going to take all night,” groused Babette. “Let me go into town, steal a healing potion or two…”

“Don’t waste your time,” Nazir hummed darkly. “I’m sure he can write.”

The man, having been hoping to coerce them into giving him a healing potion, quickly realized that was not going to happen. He took several deep breaths through his nose before leaning towards his side and a patch of dirt. His wrists still bound together, he began tracing a few words into the dust.

“Altmer” “No” “Name”

Aventus felt dread fill his heart, weighing it down until he could feel his pulse in his boots. “An Altmer. Who didn’t give his name. Did he look like a beggar, but with the air of a Thalmor? Was one ear missing?”

The man’s widening eyes were all the answer he needed.

“Do you know who did this?” Nazir demanded.

Aventus nodded. “I do.”

This time Nazir nodded. “Babette, you look weak. Why don’t you freshen up, while Aventus and I steal a few supplies?”

Babette looked at the man, lying on the ground, jaw broken, wrists bound. She smiled, slowly yet eagerly, her fangs appearing to grow in the moonlight. “Gladly.”

* * *

It was early morning. Vorstag held the door while Gerhild entered the temple. They had left Hamming sleeping in Jorrvaskr, surrounded by all his adoptive aunts and uncles, to come and keep their vigilance with Argis. They had been back in Whiterun now for a week, a long and slow-moving week, spending as much of their time in the temple, sitting with Argis and Maniel and waiting.

Gerhild’s heart was heavy with suspended grief—suspended because she knew Argis was going to die, she knew he would not recover, but he wasn’t dead yet, and she couldn’t finish grieving for her housecarl, her friend, until he was dead. So she sat down on a chair and pulled a sleepy Maniel onto her lap, giving Vorstag the chance to sit on the edge of the bed and hold his friend’s hand.

How much longer would it be, she wondered. A few more days? A few more hours? Another week? How much more time would they spend here, waiting, caught in this limbo between life and death, between hope and grief, between looking forward to the future and looking back on bittersweet memories?

Would it be better, she wondered, would it be more merciful, to end it now? Quickly. Cleanly. Cease the endless waiting and lack of hope and just move on with their lives!?!?

Tears of guilt burned in her eyes over such a selfish thought. She held Maniel a little tighter, and lifted her gaze to Vorstag. No, they would wait for the end, not quicken it. They would sit and talk as if Argis could hear them, they would hold his hand and comfort him, and they would be patient.

“Remember the time you healed him with magic?” Vorstag’s voice, though quiet, sounded suddenly through the silent temple. “He was so mad at you, not because he was healed, but because he wouldn’t have the scar to show off.”

“I remember,” she agreed, ducking her head lest her husband see the tear slipping past her lashes. “We still sent him back to Markarth, though. He’d lost too much blood to carry on adventuring with me.”

“And I agreed to join you, in his stead,” Vorstag finished. “Didn’t we come across a dragon, not long after that?”

“Aye,” her voice began to sound a little lighter as she fought off the dark thoughts, “One you forgot to warn me about, as I recall.”

“Oh, ah, well,” Vorstag cleared his throat, “Would’ve thought it’d moved on by then.”

She graciously let the matter drop.

The morning passed slowly, as time is want to do when there is nothing to fill it. Gerhild took a break every now and then, taking Maniel with her to walk around Whiterun, check on Hamming, gossip with Fralia, anything to keep herself from growing sick and old with sorrow. Maniel went with her obediently, but he always quickened his steps when they neared the temple, and pulled out of her grasp after they entered inside. “Papa!” he’d cry, as if they had been apart for hours, spilling his latest adventure for Argis to enjoy as if he could hear him. “Papa, I saw a horsy!” “Papa, I got a sweet!” “Papa, I gave Hammy a bath!”

Never once did Argis’ face change, did he show any indication of hearing his son’s voice, yet neither Vorstag nor Gerhild could find the will to ask Maniel to stop.

Not long after lunch, there was a commotion outside the temple door. Jenssen went to investigate, and after opening the portal was immediately brushed aside by a racing servant. “Lady Gerhild! Lady Gerhild! Lord Vorstag! Your presence is needed! At once, he said! You must come!”

“Slow down,” Gerhild stood and turned to face the rude intruder in a single fluid movement, her face impassive to hide her sorrow, “And quiet your voice. There are sick people in here who need their rest.”

The servant swallowed. “Aye, Lady Gerhild, your apologies, Priestess Danica,” he bowed to each of them, “But Steward Vignar sent me straight away to summon you to the Keep. You are to come immediately, you and Lord Vorstag.”

“Vignar dares to summon me so?” her voice was low and quiet, in deference to the sick and Argis, but held a dangerous and deadly undertone. “He knows what is happening, why I am here in this temple…”

“Aye, Lady Gerhild, but there’s a message. From Windhelm. An important messenger with ill tidings, though I wasn’t told what. Only that I was to summon you and your husband to the Keep.”

Vorstag felt his blood turn to ice. “You don’t suppose Ulfric could’ve…”

“Aye, husband, if the Steward received a message from Windhelm,” Gerhild broke over his words, concerned that he might let something slip. They had made an attempt on Ulfric's life, after all, “It is reasonable to assume it comes from the High King, especially if our presence is requested.” She turned back to the servant. “Very well, return to Dragonsreach and tell Steward Vignar that Lord Vorstag and I are on our way.”

“Thank you, Lady Dragonborn, thank you,” the servant swallowed again, bobbed a few times, and raced back the way he came.

She looked at Vorstag and immediately regretted it. The man was pale and sweaty, his thin lips pressed so tightly that all the color had bled out of them. He looked up at her, his puppy-dog eyes sad and deep. “Do you think…”

“I don’t know what to think,” she answered, “Not yet. And definitely not here. But they sent a servant for us, both of us; we shouldn’t keep them waiting.” Her eyes flickered around the room, trying to speak with using words.

He seemed to understand. He looked around at the others in the temple, at the healers and the patients, and at Maniel standing on tiptoe next to Argis’ bed. When he spoke, his voice was a little too tight, a little to pronounced, “Aye, you’re right. We’ll go to the Keep. Here, Maniel, sit next to your Papa, keep him company while we’re gone, alright?”

“I will,” he nodded confidently as Vorstag lifted him up and set him on the cot. He hardly noticed them leaving, going back to telling his Papa some made-up adventure he’d just had.

Once outside the temple, Vorstag visibly deflated once more. “Stuhn’s Shield, but this cannot be good,” he swore. “Could Ulfric have sent someone to arrest us, bring us back to Windhelm in chains to face, I don’t know, some sort of trial for attempting to… ah…”

“Relax, Vorstag,” she muttered beneath her breath. For added measure, she took his elbow, steering him slowly up the stairs towards Dragonsreach. “We are supposed to have no idea why a messenger is here, remember? Besides, if Ulfric wanted us arrested,” she sniffed and lifted her chin, “He wouldn’t send a messenger; he’d send an army. Even then, it would do him no good. Not against me. And he knows it.”

“Aye,” sighed Vorstag, running his free hand through his hair, “Aye, I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course I am,” she replied confidently, landing a light peck on his cheek. “I always am. Now, try to act normal.”

“Normal?” he asked, a little rhetorically. “When are things ever normal where you are concerned?”

She laughed, an act, but he appreciated her effort to calm him. “Oh, you know, act curious about the message, but mostly just be your usual, charming, laid back, easy going self.”

He eyed her disbelievingly.

“Oh, fine, just be quiet and let me do the talking,” she gave in.

“Aye,” he nodded, slipping her hand off his arm so he could put it around her shoulders, “You lead, I follow. Just like old times.”

She was glad he was taller than her, so he couldn’t see the eye roll or the smirk she made over his statement. She had just as much trouble making him follow her lead in the 'old times' as she did today.

They entered Dragonsreach side by side, calm and serene—well, Gerhild was calm and serene, Vorstag was nervously tugging at his collar and smoothening back his hair. As soon as they were inside, they were confronted with angry voices coming from the Jarl’s throne, Vignar’s frustrated harshness and Balgruuf’s long-suffering bitterness. Vilkas stood with them, Farkas at his side, though Vilkas was as quiet as his brother. The other voice coming from that area was a patient and persistent tone, one that Gerhild knew oh so very well. She blinked, almost hastening her steps, to reach them.

“Ah! At last they’re here. Now can you deliver this message of yours?” Balgruuf groused.

The man with them turned to face the newcomers, and Gerhild felt her heart skip a beat as the stranger’s identity was confirmed. “Jorleif?”

“Praise Talos!” the Steward of Eastmarch swallowed, his face turning gray. “You live! I mean, er, both of you, um, survived Alduin.”

“Aye,” Gerhild agreed, “But I had to go to Sovngarde alone to fight Alduin.”

“Sovngarde?” Jorleif repeated, “I don’t…”

“It’s a long story; I’ll tell you later,” Gerhild evaded, noticing the way Balgruuf was chewing on the bit, his lips moving like he wanted to say something but knowing he shouldn’t interrupt the Dragonborn. “But tell us: why are you here?”

Vorstag’s arm tightened around her shoulders, his hand gripping almost hard enough to bruise.

Jorleif knew he couldn’t delay the inevitable, but seeing that both Gerhild and Vorstag lived—after reading Wuunferth’s confession—had thrown him off balance. He leaned in close to her, lowering his voice for her and Vorstag’s ears only, “Aye, my dear, there’s a lot I need to tell you. I suppose I should deliver that message first, but I have to ask: were you poisoned at all, Vorstag? In your mead, perhaps?”

“Not Vorstag,” she answered, glad that her voice didn’t crack, glad that he didn’t answer, “But aye, my housecarl from Markarth, Argis, was poisoned. We haven’t been able to cure him…”

“Give him this,” Jorleif held out a small white vial.

Neither one could take it. Vorstag was the first to find his voice, staring at the vial, then at Jorleif, and finally at Gerhild, “I… how did you know… I shouldn’t leave you, but…”

“Is there any trouble?” Farkas asked, sauntering up to them. “I’d like to help, if I could.”

“Farkas!” Gerhild jumped at the opportunity, relieved and grateful that the Nord had some instinct to know when he was needed most. “Take this vial to Danica. Tell her it’s for Argis. A cure. Hurry, please, he’s already so weak.”

“No problem,” he shrugged, cradling the delicate looking vial in his massive paws. “Don’t much care for politics, anyway, and this meeting looks like it’ll be full of politics. I’ll see you later.”

Vorstag stretched his neck over his shoulder to watch him leave, but no matter how badly he wanted to see Argis cured, he couldn’t leave Gerhild’s side.

“I have more to tell you,” Jorleif finished with a whisper, “But it will have to wait until later.” He pulled back and, in as even a tone as he could muster, addressed the whole audience, “Dragonborn, Jarl Balgruuf, Harbinger, lords and ladies, it is with a heavy heart that I deliver sad tidings to this Hold.”

Vorstag snapped his attention back to Jorleif, his newborn hope for Argis’ recovery trumped by the unknown danger about to be sprung. His whole arm began shaking with tension, to the point where Gerhild could barely cover her reaction. She briefly entertained the idea of stepping on his foot to get him to let go, but Jorleif’s next words negated the need.

“Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Eastmarch, Liberator and High King of Skyrim, is dead.”

Vorstag felt like he was going to throw up, his emotions in turmoil, too much occurring at once. It had worked, somehow, amazingly, unbelievably, despite the ridiculous plan, it had worked. They had caused the death of the High King…

“As is his wife, the Lady Nilsine.”

Gerhild had been preparing herself, guessing Jorleif’s message would contain bad news, but she couldn’t have prepared herself for Nilsine’s death. Honest tears filled her eyes, hot and bright and choking the breath in her throat. “…no…” she moaned, the sound incomprehensible.

“I am sorry,” Jorleif continued, his features drooping with his mustache, as he turned to Gerhild. “I know this is hard for you; Ulfric was like a father to you, and Nilsine a sister. I wanted… well, Galmar wanted to deliver the news personally, but he’s needed in Eastmarch. Friga is now Jarl, and she needs a regent who is trusted by the men, whom the Stormcloaks will follow, since Ulfric is gone. So I was sent instead.”

“Of course,” Balgruuf quickly agreed, no doubt already looking for some weakness he could exploit. Now that Ulfric was dead, he would be free of his puppet master, and could start taking back control of his Hold. He eyed Vignar sideways from beneath his brow.

“How did it happen?” Gerhild at last found her voice, able to make a more coherent sound. She no longer minded the tightness of Vorstag’s embrace, and curled into his side while Jorleif elaborated.

“It started, I suppose, with Friga. She’d been suffering lately from some lingering illness. Nilsine cared for her, almost constantly, to the point where she stopped caring for herself. Then one night, she grew faint and dizzy, and fell out the window in her daughter’s chambers. Ulfric was there, but he couldn’t save her. Distraught over his daughter’s illness and his wife’s accidental death, well, Ulfric wasn’t a young man, ya know. He’d lived a hard life. Sometime during that same night, while alone in his chambers, his heart gave out. When we found him the next morning, he was already cold.”

“Merciful Arkay,” Vilkas breathed prayerfully.

Gerhild closed her eyes for a moment, unable to believe Ulfric’s heart would give out so easily. Yet he was dead. As was Nilsine. And… “…Friga?”

“She lives, for now,” Jorleif answered. “She is still very ill, but the whole of Eastmarch is praying for her recovery.”

“As is the whole of Skyrim,” Balgruuf declared.

“There will be a state funeral in a couple of weeks. We were hoping, Galmar and I, that you would be able to attend.” He turned back towards the others, “Along with as many Jarls as can make it, and you, Harbinger.”

“Of course,” Gerhild answered, her mind spinning quickly without getting anywhere. Ulfric dead. Nilsine dead. Friga weak and sickly…

“I, er, have another message, for you, personally,” Jorleif nodded to Gerhild. He seemed to have already dismissed the others, his wide eyes flickering between Gerhild and Vorstag. He patted the side of his vest, “To be delivered in private.”

“Oh, um, alright, er, Jarl Balgruuf,” she turned to the throne, not wishing to think what else Jorleif could say to her, but finding no way to deny or avoid him, “As you know, my house is currently inhospitable. Might we have the use of a chamber here in Dragonsreach?”

“The Great Porch shall be yours to use, Thane Gerhild,” he used her title, a subtle reminder that he saw her as a subject of his Hold, as well as the Dragonborn.

She ignored his ploy. “Vilkas, if there’s any news from the temple, regarding Argis…”

“I’ll send word to you immediately,” he agreed. Though he hadn’t been close enough to hear what was said to his brother, he had seen something passed to Farkas. He knew Farkas hated politics, and long discussions, which he thought this summons would be, so he wasn’t surprised when Farkas jumped at the chance to escape. But the meeting had been so brief, the news so tragic, Vilkas was no left with nothing to do himself. He decided to follow his brother outside, perhaps check in on Argis. It could very well be that was where Farkas had been sent, especially if his eyes hadn’t failed him and he had seen a potion vial given to Farkas. Though how Jorleif would know to bring an antidote for Argis was beyond him, unless Gerhild somehow had sent him a message… Mentally he shook his head, giving up trying to figure it out. “If you’ll excuse me, Jarl Balgruuf, I do have other matters that need attending to.”

Gerhild barely heard the exchange, already starting up the stairs towards the Great Porch. It seemed like only yesterday she had made this climb in full dragon armor, her mind and will set to capture a dragon and force it into taking her to Alduin. But that had been weeks ago, several long weeks where so much had happened, good and ill, victory and death.

The two men with her noticed her quiet but did not intrude, Vorstag with his own unfounded worries about what this mysterious other message could be, and Jorleif with his daunting task of disclosing the entire truth to the Dragonborn.

By the Nine, all three of them thought, but this was going to be a long afternoon.

The Great Porch was fairly deserted, and with plenty of roomy, wide open spaces to insure no one would sneak up on them. Gerhild led the men to the large banqueting table set out near the edge of the porch, taking a seat near the head where she could see anyone approaching from the main door. Jorleif sat at the head, Vorstag opposite Gerhild. After Vorstag had poured them all wine—surprising himself by not spilling a drop—Jorleif cleared his throat and began his tale.

“Gerhild, my dear, first let me say,” he turned to Vorstag, “That I am very glad you, Vorstag, are not dead. This is going to come as quite a shock to you,” he turned back to Gerhild, “Both of you, but Ulfric… Ah, gods, it’s hard to say!” The gentle soul let go of his goblet to scrub at his face, trying to dry his tears before they could unman him.

“Jorleif?” she laid a cool and comforting hand on his other arm, “Take your time, all the time you need. I know you and Ulfric were close; his death must still be very fresh and painful for you.”

“Aye, dear girl, it is,” he sighed, sniffed, and patted around inside his vest before pulling out a handkerchief. He made a rude, though brief noise, and took up his narration once more. “I’ve no idea what happened here; I saw your house had been destroyed, by fire, you said? And you mentioned a housecarl had been poisoned; by Talos, I hope it was the same poison. Let me tell you my side—Ulfric’s side in this whole affair. Then you can tell me yours.

“Most of what I said downstairs is true, Ulfric and Nilsine are dead, and Friga has been sickly, but we’re playing up her illness for the time being. Truthfully, she is already fully recovered, cured of her poisoning.”

“Poisoning?!” Vorstag exclaimed.

Gerhild immediately silenced him, “Careful, husband, there are still guards patrolling nearby. I’m sorry, Jorleif, please continue.”

“As I said, it’s a hard tale to tell. And confusing. I hardly know where to start. Apparently, somehow, Ulfric got it into his head, that Friga was not his child. No one really knows why or how, but he became convinced that Friga was a bastard, that Nilsine had cuckolded him, though he never said who had done the deed.”

I know, Gerhild thought to herself, refusing to meet Vorstag’s eyes. She could feel him staring at her, but she kept her focus on Jorleif and his story.

“He went to Wuunferth, the court wizard, looking for a way to poison Friga, something that would appear like a long and debilitating illness. Wuunferth, damn him to Oblivion, suggested nightshade. He brewed a concoction that could be mixed in with the child’s food, a little each day, making her body appear to slowly be weakening until it eventually failed her. And it would have worked. But somehow, Nilsine discovered what Ulfric was doing. Wuunferth didn’t know how, but he reasoned she must have figured it out, because when her body was discovered, there were shards of black glass imbedded in her hand, glass like the vial that had held the poison. There was also some bruising around her neck, what was left of it. Wuunferth reasoned that Nilsine discovered Ulfric’s deranged plot and confronted him with the vial. In a fit of insane rage, he must have choked her and threw her out the window to finish the deed.”

“Oh, poor Nilsine, you innocent child,” Gerhild whispered, thinking somehow her actions—their actions—had been what drove Ulfric over the edge into full insanity, had been what caused him to kill her. Vorstag must have had similar thoughts, his hand reaching across the table to take hers, to wrap his large and calloused digits around her cool ones, to offer companionship in their culpability if not comfort.

“Apparently, Nilsine wasn’t as innocent as we all believed.”

“How do you mean?” Vorstag asked, praying for some miracle that would erase their transgressions in this whole messy affair.

“There were guards just outside the corridor when Ulfric killed Nilsine. They heard the commotion, but by the time they entered, Nilsine was already gone, Ulfric staring out the window. Of course it looked like she had jumped, and it’s been hard to suppress that rumor, though the official story is what I said downstairs, that she grew distraught and slipped and fell.

“Galmar and I both noticed Ulfric acting oddly, holding his left arm, his face looking gray, so we sent him to bed. Neither of us checked on him until morning, when we found him clutching his chest, still dressed from the night before. What else were we to think but that his heart had given out? Wuunferth, however, saw the signs of nightshade poisoning.”

“Nightshade?” This time it was Gerhild who almost drew the unwanted attentions of the guards. She cleared her throat and blushed, slightly, dropping her voice with her eyes, “But, how?”

“Nilsine. She must have done it right after finding the vial. There had been a pitcher of Black-Briar Reserve in his room.”

Gerhild nodded, remembering Ulfric’s favorite drink.

“Wuunferth discovered it was empty that morning, and shards of a broken goblet near the hearth. He reasoned that after Nilsine found the vial, she must have emptied it into the Reserve, which would easily mask the taste of nightshade. So even after Ulfric killed her, she got her revenge, for herself and her child.”

“Stuhn’s Shield,” swore Vorstag, “What a mess! How can Wuunferth be sure of all this?”

“Auguries?” suggested Jorleif with a shrug, which turned into a shudder. “Who knows, and I don’t care; the man practiced magic. Whatever the means, Wuunferth was right about a few things, why not the rest? Friga was being poisoned with nightshade. Glass was found in Nilsine’s hand. Ulfric had also died from nightshade poisoning. Wuunferth’s explanation is as reasonable as any, more so coupled with his confession. And,” he leaned in close, “If I’m not mistaken, with whatever happened to your housecarl.

“That’s the last bit,” he continued. “Wuunferth admitted that Ulfric came to him for another vial of nightshade, before any of this business with Friga. Ulfric wanted to poison someone, someone he claimed was an enemy of Skyrim, someone who had gotten close enough to the Dragonborn to turn her against Ulfric. Wuunferth had no choice but to comply. He gave Ulfric the first vial of nightshade poison, along with the advice to mix it into something like mead, to hide the taste. He found out much later that Ulfric intended the first poisoning victim to be Vorstag.”

“It was close,” Vorstag admitted. “After capturing the dragon, we learned that Alduin was in Sovngarde, and the portal that led there would only allow dragons to cross it. Gerhild could use it, because she is Dragonborn, but I could not, so she left Hamming and me safe up at High Hrothgar. But her housecarls, Lydia and Argis, and her Steward from Markarth, Rhiada, stayed behind here in Whiterun. In Breezehome.”

“Do you remember Benor?” Gerhild took up the narration, much to Jorleif’s astonishment over how much they already had pieced together, “Out of Morthal? Lost to Vorstag in the championship after hitting him in the, er,” she paused to give a polite cough, “Sweetmeats. Anyway, Benor held a grudge. Wasn’t hard for Ulfric to convince Benor to do his dirty work. He had Benor deliver a cask of mead, marked specifically for Vorstag. Only for whatever reason, Lydia and the rest drank the mead themselves. And somehow, during the night, a fire started. Argis and Maniel made it outside, but Rhiada and Lydia perished in the flames.”

“Maniel?”

“Argis’ and Rhiada’s son.”

“Ah, aye, I remember the boy, a sickly child, too.”

“He’s better now, thanks to Danica’s efforts at the temple. At any rate, two died in the fire, and another was poisoned. The Companions took it upon themselves to track Benor down, bring him back to Whiterun to face a trial.”

“He’s here? Now? This Benor of Morthal? Is that how you know so much already?”

“Aye, but he was killed last week. Before he died, I got a confession out of him, using a Shout, so aye, it wasn’t admissible in court. But I needed to know,” Gerhild looked at him with intently violet eyes, “Who it was who wanted to hurt me. And why.” She took a deep breath, “So, no, we weren’t surprised to learn of Ulfric’s, um, unstableness. But Nilsine…?”

“Aye,” Jorleif sighed, wiping at his mustache, “There’s been too much death lately. Nilsine. Ulfric, though I suppose he died years ago, didn’t he?” He gave a short scoff, “Galmar and I never saw it, not while it was going on, but now that we’ve had the chance to look back, now that we’ve been given evidence of his madness…” he looked up and held her gaze. “He wasn’t always like that, Gerhild. If only you could have known him in his youth, when your parents knew him.”

“He was a different man then,” she graciously allowed. “What about Wuunferth? I’d like to question him myself, find out exactly how…” her voice trailed away beneath the shaking of Jorleif’s head.

“That won’t be possible. I think I said, that Wuunferth confessed his part in all this?” He reached inside his vest and withdrew a folded piece of parchment. “It was a deathbed confession, written by his own hand, just before he took a fatal dose of nightshade himself. And after providing an antidote for Friga. And one for Vorstag, should he still somehow survive. Galmar and I decided one of us should come here with all haste, to deliver the antidote. I was the more logical choice. I was the first one you met, in the Palace of the Kings, when you got to Windhelm.”

“I remember,” she said simply.

There was a commotion at the doors leading back into the Keep. The guards there must have been given orders that the three of them were not to be disturbed, as they tried vainly to hold back the newcomer. It was Farkas, however; and the great bear of a man would not be denied.

“Let him come,” Gerhild called out, standing to meet Farkas even as she slipped the letter into one of her many hidden pockets.

Before he was close enough to speak to them, she already knew what he was going to say. It was evident in every line of his features, the pace of his steps, the urgency of his demeanor.

* * *

Gerhild watched them with bittersweet tears. Argis was sitting up, looking tired and weak as he leaned back against the pillows, a loose tunic covering his emaciated frame. Maniel had firmly lodged himself on his Papa’s lap and refused to leave, and no one had the heart to insist, no matter how rambunctious he squirmed and giggled. A small crowd of well-wishers had gathered around the two, milling about and talking and taking turns speaking to them. Argis endured it as well as he could, blinking at every strange face, taking their offered handshakes, and nodding over their muttered expressions. Maniel jubilantly waved to the few he recognized—like Fralia who had given him a sweet—and kept a running, babbling dialogue of who was who, making things up when he didn't know them.

Gerhild and Vorstag stood a little to the side, his arms around her, her arms around Hamming. It was late evening by this time. After Farkas had brought them the news that the antidote worked, that Argis was recovering and awake and asking for his Thane, they had all but raced for the temple. Jorleif had declined to go with them, choosing instead to impose on the Jarl for the night, before getting an early start for Windhelm the next morning. Gerhild, however, was as anxious as Vorstag to see their friend whole once more, and left Jorleif with a vague promise that they would attend Ulfric’s funeral in Windhelm.

The scene in the temple wasn’t quite what they had expected. It was true what Farkas had told them, Argis was awake and cured of the poison, but Vilkas met them just inside the door with the rest of the news, the part that wasn’t so hopeful.

“Oh, husband,” Gerhild sighed, thinking over what had been said. “Do you think Danica is correct? Do you think, after all the time he’s been sick, that his mind won’t recover?”

“Nope,” Vorstag lied, trying to hide it from the woman who knew him better than he knew himself. “You’ll see. By this time next week, Argis will be back on his feet, practicing with his sword, his mind as sharp as ever. He might even take on Rhiada’s duties as your Steward.”

She smiled for his efforts. “That would be nice. But I think I will sell the house in Markarth, if you don’t mind, and focus on our new home near Riverwood. Do you think he’d like living there, with us?”

Before Vorstag could answer, there was a commotion around Argis’ bed. The housecarl was turning his head, looking at the strange faces around him without seeing them, his lips parted with his breath. “Where’s my Thane?” he called out weakly. “Lady Gerhild?”

“There she is, Papa!” Maniel pointed, happy to be of assistance.

Gerhild paused only long enough to pass Hamming over to Vorstag. She smiled as she approached the cot, the crowd parting for her. “I’m here, Argis,” she said calmly as she drew near and knelt beside them. She reached out and touched his shoulder, lightly, gently, exuding calmness and peace.

“My lady,” he licked his lips, visibly relaxing when he recognized her. The next moment he began struggling to rise, confounded by the pelts covering him and the boy on his lap. “Do you require anything? I should get up, start a fire, you’ll want supper…”

“It’s alright, Argis,” she increased the pressure on his shoulder, encouraging him to remain sitting. “You’ve been ill. You’ve got to give yourself time to recover.”

“Oh,” he sounded surprised, and more than a little confused. “Oh, I’ve been ill? Was it a fight? Were you injured?”

“No, I’m fine. Don’t you remember? The fire? The poisoned mead?” The look on his face was answer enough, the poor man shaking his head slightly. “It’s alright, Argis, don’t worry about it. You have Manny here to help you.”

“I’m a good helper, Papa,” Maniel confirmed. “And I don’t cough anymore.”

It was a lie, but one that Gerhild allowed, seeing as Maniel was trying to be strong for his Papa. Argis, too, reacted warmly, almost like his old self, as if Maniel’s illness registered somewhere deep inside him. He wrapped his arms around his son, smiling brightly for him, “Aye, no more coughing. That’s a good lad.”

Maniel beamed back at him.

“I think they’ve had enough excitement for one night,” Danica announced. “Why don’t we leave them to rest?” She spread her arms wide, ushering the people outside like a mother swan ushering her swanlings.

“My Thane?” Argis reached out for her as she made to stand up, a slight tone of alarm in his voice. “Where are you going? I should go with you. Protect you.”

“It’s alright, Argis, I’m not going on any adventures tonight,” she put her hand over his, reassuringly, before gently removing it. “And you need to stay here, until you’re well again. Then you’ll come with us; I promise.”

“Us?” he repeated, his brow furrowed. “You mean, you, me and Manny?”

“And Vorstag and Hamming,” she added gently.

“Oh, aye,” he sighed, relaxing, “I remember those two. Troublemakers. Both of them. But Vorstag turned out alright, I suppose. Can’t remember what happened to Hamming…”

“She means our son, Hamming,” Vorstag came up to them, holding the babe.

Argis looked at the baby, who was staring at him with deep dark eyes. He didn’t seem to recognize Hamming, nor understand he was the son of Gerhild and Vorstag. Suddenly Hamming giggled, kicking his legs and throwing his arms about. Argis smiled and gave a soft chuckle in answer. “He looks like a good lad, a strong lad. Bet he’s already tried to wield a sword.”

“It was a war axe,” Vorstag answered, smiling back a little hopefully, “His mother’s.”

“Smart lad, too. The mother’s more likely to leave her weapon out where a boy can reach it. He… he needs a mother… to show him how… to give him… to nurture…” Argis’ words trailed away in confusion. He turned to look at Maniel, his expression sad, “Your mother never owned a weapon, to leave out for you to play with. I’ve had to teach you… your mother… what was her name… Rhiada…” He looked up and blinked around the room, but the woman he was looking for, the woman he had just remembered, was not there.

“It’ll take time,” Danica said tenderly from behind the small group, “But things will get better. He’ll stop looking for who isn’t there, and replace them with those who are there. Rest now, Argis. Gerhild and Vorstag will be back in the morning.” She added the last bit to the housecarl, finally shooing the others away from the bed.

Argis nodded obediently and scooted down beneath the pelts, Maniel burrowing in next to him still refusing to leave. One last thought struck him, however, and he reached out and snagged Vorstag’s hand before he could turn to follow his wife. “Vorstag. I don’t know what you want with my Thane, but if you break her heart, I’ll break your legs.”

Vorstag was taken aback for a moment, but surprisingly he recovered quickly. “Aye, Argis, I know. Duty and all, she being your Thane. But after what we shared in Riften, do you really have to question my integrity?”

Argis blinked at him again, before letting loose a chuckle that bounced Maniel on his chest. “He’s a good man, my Thane,” he confirmed, letting Vorstag go. “You’d be wise to snag him, before he gets away.”

It was Gerhild who had trouble finding her voice. “Aye, Argis,” she answered in a breathy choke, “I’ll consider it.” She had to leave the temple before her tears betrayed her.

Outside in the cool evening air, beneath the restored Gildergreen, she paused to allow Vorstag to catch up. Danica came with him, her voice calm and full of hope, out of long practice due to her many years as a healer. “Do not give in to despair, Lady Gerhild,” she began. “Aye, Argis’ mind is confused right now, his memories and thoughts a jumble, but he does know you. And Vorstag. And little Maniel.”

“Thank the Nine,” Vorstag agreed.

“In time, perhaps more will come back to him.” She reached out to touch the trunk of the tree, feeling through the bark the wind blowing and swaying the upper branches. “Never give up hope.”

Gerhild heard her. She knew what Danica was trying to say, that she was referring to the miraculous restoration of the tree beneath which they stood. She looked up into the branches, heavy with their leaves, the lavender color bleached white by the twilight. All that had happened… all the victory and tragedy… all the success and failure… all the death and all the saved lives…

The Gildergreen was restored, aye, but only because Gerhild had done something about it. Argis was alive, but only because someone had done something about it. Hope, it seemed, was not something one held on to with a blank and empty promise; rather it was something one set out to fulfill for oneself—or for others.

“Aye,” she sighed, brushing aside the last of her tears, turning to look at Vorstag with a fire in her deep blue eyes. “Hope. We can give him that.”


	16. The Final Word

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am done with this story. It's all written; only a matter of proofing and posting the final chapters. Should have that done over the coming week.

20th of Sun's Height: 4E 206

Vorstag resisted the urge for the seventeenth time to pull at the collar of his coat. It was very high, very tight, and very formal, trimmed with a gold braid that rubbed his skin raw just beneath his jawline.

Gerhild sat beside him, resplendent in a velvet gown of deepest violet, modest and sober for the occasion. She didn't fidget. She didn't have a deceptively innocent-seeming decorative trim designed by a diabolical tailor turned evil mastermind intent on torturing and tormenting…

Cool fingers took his, ceasing the twitching of his hand on his lap. "Are you alright?" she asked quietly out of the corner of her mouth. Outwardly she appeared to be listening intently to Lortheim's sermon.

They were sitting in the Temple of Talos in Windhelm, along with the Jarls and their spouses and what lords or ladies were deemed important enough to fill the few extra spaces. They sat in the second row, directly behind the Shatter-Shields. Next to Nilsine's parents were Jorleif and Galmar, little Friga bundled up warmly and fitting snugly between the two old Nords. The daughter did not understand what was happening, but earlier when Galmar had lifted her up and brought her forward to the two coffins to place Ulfric's Amulet of Talos over his chest, there had not been a dry eye in the small Temple. Seeing everyone around her cry, even the tough old bird holding her, she had gotten a little upset. Thankfully, after returning to their seats, Jorleif had been able to calm her by allowing her to pull on his drooping mustache.

"This has been going on for over three hours…" he softly moaned back, not wishing his voice to carry and disturb the other mourners.

"Just started the fourth hour," she agreed, then turned her head slightly to peek at him. "What did you expect? The funeral of a Jarl is no small affair. The funeral of the High King of Skyrim must be even more grand, especially for the High King who accomplished so much for his kingdom, driving out the Thalmor and liberating us from a weak Empire."

"You did most of that," he peeked back at her.

"Aye, well," she rolled her eyes, "I did it in his name, so he gets the credit. Stuhn's Shield," her whispers grew suddenly fierce, her hand tightening in his, "Do you think they'll have a week-long observance after my death? I wouldn't want that."

He squeezed her hand back, not sure if she was teasing in an attempt to distract him, or seriously disturbed by how people would mourn her after she died. "At least you won't be there to witness it. I'll probably have to sit through all that fuss, too."

"I wouldn't worry about that, if I were you. Husbands usually die before their wives, probably because they're older."

"Gerhild, you know how dangerous your life is, how many adventures you've been on, how close to death you've come. The odds are, you'll die before me. And then I'll have to sit through another week of feasting where bards vie for the honor of writing your life's ballad."

Her shoulders rose and fell in a heavy sigh. "The other night did get a bit long," she minutely nodded. "Why each Jarl had to bring their own bard, or why they each had to write over two hundred stanzas for Ulfric's life, I'll never know."

Vorstag gave a little huff in answer, not wanting to continue to think about the painful evening. Instead his hand twitched, absently trying to raise itself to pull at the tight collar. Her hand was still in his, encumbering his movement long enough for him to come to his senses.

"What is wrong with you?" she hissed, more concerned than upset, however.

"This collar," he tried to ease it by flexing his neck muscles and moving his chin around. "It's rubbing my skin raw."

She turned her head just a little more to get a better look at him. "That's because you're a sellsword at heart, my love. Your posture is that of a trained fighter, loose but prepared. Try to, um, un-relax your shoulders, pull them back a little more. That should lift and part the fabric away from your neck."

Vorstag was doubtful, but he'd been with Gerhild long enough to know she sometimes knew what she was talking about. He did as she suggested, and miraculously it worked, the gold braid no longer rubbing at his skin. During the final hour of the service, however, he did develop a tight knot of tension on top of his spine and right between his shoulder blades.

At long last Lortheim, the priest of Talos, finished his own recounting of Ulfric's life, a tale far more lengthy than any bard could tell. Gerhild felt her temper rise, as Nilsine's life was tacked onto the end as a footnote. Nilsine, a gentle soul who had already suffered greatly. Her twin sister brutally murdered by a serial killer. Her mother chronically depressed. Given as a bride to a man old enough to be her father. And her own daughter so dangerously ill for so long. Aye, Gerhild thought to herself, Nilsine was also strong, perhaps stronger than Ulfric, yet she'll receive none of the credit she deserves.

After the service, the Jarls and nobles stood around for a time, conversing in smaller groups. Vorstag had been quickly snagged into such a group, consisting of Vilkas and Vignar, though Gerhild had pretended not to see them and slipped away. She paused halfway to the coffins to glance back at Vorstag. He sent back a longing look, silently asking for help in extricating himself from the group, but she didn't rescue him, an important mission of her own first and foremost in her thoughts. She left her husband to his fate and quietly walked up to Nilsine's parents, who were standing over the closed coffin. The mother, Tova, was inconsolable, unable and unwilling to cease her weeping. The father, Torbjorn, stood stoically at her side, attempting to be strong for her sake—for both their sakes.

Gerhild gave a gentle cough, not wishing to startle either of them. "Excuse me, I don't mean to intrude upon your grief…"

"Lady Gerhild," Torbjorn acknowledged her. "I… we… my wife and I… appreciate your presence here today. I know you must have more important matters to attend to…"

"Not at all," she waved aside the courtesies, wanting to get to the reason why she approached them. She could almost feel Vorstag's glare boring into the back of her head, his expression full of foreboding. "I won't take up much of your time, but I wanted to tell you… I wanted you to know, that Nilsine was like a sister to me. Not that I ever had a sister, but my relationship with her was what I always imagined it would be like—having a sister. She was a beautiful, honest, loyal, and loving woman. I will miss her greatly."

"Will you?" Tova choked at her, "You will miss Nilsine, but what about me? Have you any idea of my pain? How much I miss my girls? Both of them? My beautiful, precious girls?"

"I do not," Gerhild honestly answered, "Though I am a mother, I cannot allow myself to even imagine what it would feel like to lose my son. But I do sympathize with your pain." She glanced down, trying not to start crying herself. "I, um, I know nothing will replace the loved ones you've lost, but I hope this might help." She took out a small package and handed it over to Tova.

The grieving mother took it in her hands, shaking so badly she nearly dropped it. Torbjorn had to help her undo the string, revealing an Amulet of Arkay inside.

"I picked it up, during one of my many journeys. I thought, well, it might bring some small comfort, knowing your daughters are with the gods. And with each other once more."

Tova might have heard her, but her weeping grew in intensity. She clutched the amulet to her chest, rocking back and forth over the coffin.

"I ask your forgiveness; it seems I've only upset you further, Lady Shatter-Shield."

Torbjorn answered for them both. "No, Lady Gerhild. We remember what you've done for us. You discovered the man who murdered our one daughter, Friga," again Tova's weeping intensified, "And you were a good friend to our other daughter. Nilsine spoke of you often, fondly, and aye, like a sister. She looked up to you, ya know."

Gerhild smiled sadly, "I was the one who looked up to her." She inclined her head to them both. "Ya know, you may have lost your daughters, but little Friga is making a full recovery. Nilsine will live on in her, and a part of Friga, too, I think."

Tova nodded, unable to speak as fresh tears ran like rain down her cheeks.

"I should take my leave. Again, please, excuse my intrusion," she laid a comforting hand on Torbjorn's sleeve, and received a nod of gratitude in return. Then she turned to leave.

"Lady Dragonborn," Tova called after her. She stopped to look back, her expression open and slightly curious. "Thank you."

Gerhild dropped a deep curtsey. She turned again and left the two to their grief, pointing herself in Vorstag's direction. His face was slightly red and not from embarrassment, if she correctly interpreted his thinly pressed lips. Something dire must be going on.

She didn't want to stop beside Ulfric's coffin, having taken a moment before the ceremony to pay her respects, or at least to appear that way. Besides, it wasn't as if little Friga could accept her condolences. She did nod to Galmar, knowing his grief was as deep as that of the Shatter-Shields, though he could not allow himself to express it.

Jorleif, however, caught her before she could reach Vorstag's side. "That was very kind of you, what you did, giving the Shatter-Shields that amulet," he said by way of starting a conversation.

"I'm not sure it helped," she admitted.

"It will," he affirmed, even as Tova continued to weep. "In time. There's something Galmar and I wish to talk with you about, if you have a moment."

It was a very clumsy attempt at being subtle. Jorleif was an honest and simple man, so Gerhild supposed he had never cultivated a technique. "I was going over there to join my husband…" she hedged.

"It won't take but a moment," he insisted.

He knew she had no wish to be rude or make a scene, especially at a funeral. "Of course," she acceded, giving Vorstag an apologetic look. She didn't know what could be so upsetting, standing there talking with Vilkas, even if Vignar was also present. She hoped he could hold out a few more minutes.

Jorleif brought her back to Galmar's side just as some minor lord was stepping away. Gerhild glanced over her shoulder to see that the main doors to the temple had been opened, allowing those who hadn't been able to attend the funeral, to come in and offer their condolences. For a moment she found herself hoping someone else would come up and distract the two Nords, but her luck wasn't with her that evening.

"Lady Gerhild," Galmar's rough voice was even rougher with his grief. He passed Friga over to Jorleif and took Gerhild by the elbow, leading her towards the open coffin. "I don't know if you've had a chance yet, but I wanted to make sure you could pay your respects. I know Ulfric was like a father to you."

"Thank you, Galmar, but I have already said my goodbyes," she replied, yet gave in to the tug. They stopped beside the open coffin; his body not as mutilated as Nilsine's, so the mourners were allowed to look upon their late High King. Though she herself tried not to look, there was no where else to cast her gaze. She found herself drawn to Ulfric's face, paler and grayer inside the stark temple. He looked so thin, so weak, so old… "Was there something specific you wanted to talk about?" she asked quickly, quietly, trying to distract herself.

Galmar gave an appreciate laugh, short, but honest. "Never could pull the wool over your eyes, lass. Aye, there is something we wish to discuss with you, me and Jorleif that is, and I drew the short straw. As you know," he put his arm across her shoulders and leaned in close to speak softly into her ear, as if sharing her grief and offering comfort, "Friga is now Jarl of Eastmarch. But she's too young. She needs a regent to rule in her stead, until she's old enough."

"I assumed she has you," Gerhild tried to ignore the warning tingle creeping through the hairs on the back of her neck.

"She does, but I'm an old man, Gerhild. I'll be useless with age—or dead—long before she's ready to assume her throne. No, she needs someone younger, stronger, someone who knows how to wield authority, someone the Stormcloaks will follow." He leaned in even closer, squeezing her shoulder tightly, "HAVE followed."

Aye, she should have listened to that warning tingle. "No, Galmar, before you even ask, my answer is no."

"Please, lass, think about it…"

"There's nothing to think about." She turned to face him, his hand slipping from its perch. "I have my own family now. Besides, I'm done with being the Dragonborn. Skyrim is free. Alduin is dead. The Thalmor are gone. There's nothing left for me to do but retire."

"There is more you could do…" he argued.

"But nothing I'm fated to do," she affirmed, stubbornly. "My life is my own, now. And I intend to live it with my husband and son."

"Skyrim needs you," he pressed, "Eastmarch needs you. You are a daughter of this Hold. Aye, I know, you were born in Cyrodiil, but your mother and father were both from this Hold. You are of Eastmarch blood, and your Hold needs you. Ulfric needs you."

Her eyes deepened from dark blue into violet. "You have a lot of gall, Galmar, asking me to do something in his name, standing over his dead body, knowing what he nearly did to Vorstag." There was a sound inside the temple, a sound like thunder rolling along the horizon. No one except Galmar—and Vorstag, of course—realized it was Gerhild's Thu'um slipping into her voice. "If you recall, I have only ever claimed to be of Skyrim, not any particular hold or village."

"I remember…"

"Nor have I sworn fealty to Jarl Friga," she continued, overriding his words. "Aye, I was a sworn agent of Jarl Ulfric, and I discharged my duties faithfully. But my oath died with him. And I am free of those obligations, until I swear another." She turned away, dismissing their conversation.

"Gerhild, please," he grabbed her elbow again, "Reconsider. There's no one else who could serve as regent."

She eyed his hand on her arm, and he quickly dropped it. "Friga has a grandfather," she stated simply, deciding that throwing a bone to Galmar might make him back off of her. "Speak with Torbjorn. He has proven himself quite a competent businessman already; running a Hold cannot be that much more challenging. And I'm sure he'll have only his granddaughter's best interests at heart, which would include what is best for Eastmarch. Now, excuse me, I wish to return to my husband."

Again she spun away, dismissing Galmar; this time he let her go.

Gerhild approached Vorstag, still talking quietly with Vilkas. Vignar had moved off, currently speaking animatedly with Jarl Thongvor of the Reach. The two men cast their eyes her way as she approached Vorstag, but didn't make move to speak with her.

"Husband," she said quietly, taking his hand in hers, "Harbinger."

"So formal, Gerhild?" Vilkas questioned her.

"It helps me keep my temper," she answered between gritted teeth.

"What is it that Galmar said to you? You look fairly upset," Vorstag gave her hand a squeeze.

"I could ask the same of you and Vignar. You look rather upset yourself," she countered.

"I, ah," Vilkas coughed, scratching the side of his nose, "I've been trying to calm him down. Why don't we, er, step outside, get some fresh air, before that storm arrives?"

"What storm?" she asked, not really curious but making conversation.

"Didn't you hear the thunder just now?"

"That was Gerhild," Vorstag answered, ushering his wife through the throng pressing into the temple. They stopped their conversation, not wanting to be overheard, until they were outside in the fresh air. The sun was setting, the light muted and pink and making the gray stones of Windhelm look sickly. Gerhild supposed it was her own frame of mind, putting a dark and downward spin on everything she saw or heard. She would be glad when they could finally return to Riverwood, to their home, to their life together.

"Now, you first," Vorstag started, not really wanting to repeat what Vignar had mentioned until he knew exactly why his love was so upset already. "What did Galmar have to say to you?"

Gerhild looked around them, not answering right away, taking in the whole of Windhelm. The dark and dirty stones, the never-melting snow lingering in ditches and shadowy corners, the oppressed and fearful-looking elves. Aye, she could do a lot of good for this city, this Hold, if she accepted Galmar's offer. "Galmar wanted me to become regent. Now, what was it Vignar said to you?"

"He what?!" Vorstag forgot himself, speaking a little too loudly. He quickly realized he what he had done and coughed, trying to cover his slip.

"That's not so bad," Vilkas answered for him. "Vignar made the suggestion to Vorstag that if you were to put your name forward to become the next High King, you would have the support of a couple of Jarls already."

Gerhild didn't react, not outwardly, other than a few quick blinks. She stood this way for several seconds, working it out in her head. "Of course, that makes perfect sense. The High King must be one of the Jarls," she reasoned aloud, her anger seeming to have evaporated now that things were clearing up. "I am not a Jarl, but if I were to become Friga's regent, it might be close enough to override any objections from the, shall we say, less-Stormcloak-supporting Jarls." She furrowed her brows, continuing to reason it through. "I wonder who cooked up this little plot? Not Galmar, certainly. And I doubt Vignar would have put this forward on his own initiative, even if he came up with it… Ah!" she suddenly sighed, snapping her fingers, almost smiling, "Thongvor."

"You… don't seem too, um, overly concerned about this anymore," Vilkas dared to comment.

"Oh, don't get me wrong, Vilkas," she smiled at him, cold and icy like the Gerhild of old, "I am quite livid about the whole matter."

"Gerhild…" Vorstag's voice was low and full of warning, but she didn't heed him.

"Undoubtedly they plan to bring this up at the feast tonight," she continued. "While all the Jarls and Stewards are still here. They would have done better to surprise me at supper, first with the regency, then with the throne. But forewarned is forearmed. Should they bring it up tonight," her eyes were so dark a violet they appeared black, "I will give them my uncompromising ultimatum."

Vilkas and Vorstag exchanged a look. "Are you sure you're gonna wanna do that?"

Before she could answer Vilkas' question, her attention was captured by a pair of Nords striding through the crowd. One was dressed as a Stormcloak general—retired, though his uniform showed signs of hard use once upon a time. His blue eyes were kind and honest, and on one side of his head dangled a single blond braid, swinging in rhythm with his steps. He shuffled amiably down the street, talking and smiling, his lilting Nordic voice gentle and calm as he spoke to his companion. The other man had the look about him of someone who has been sick for a long time: his armor hung a little too large on his frame, his hands shook and fidgeted at his straps and sword hilt, his lax mouth swayed below his sunken cheekbones, and his brow furrowed with worry over constantly shifting eyes.

"Here she is, Argis," Ralof patted the housecarl on the shoulder as they approached, "Safe and sound, just as I said she would be."

It took a moment before his eyes settled on Gerhild, and a moment longer before what he saw made sense to him. "My Thane," Argis bowed, his features finally easing into relief. "I lost sight of you. Couldn't find you. Please, don't run off like that again. I am sworn to protect you. If anything had happened…"

"It's alright, Argis," she took his arm, instantly letting go of her ire in the face of Argis' distress. "I was in the Temple of Talos. With Vorstag. I was safe the whole time."

"Oh," he looked at Vorstag, seeming to remember they were married as soon as he did so, "Right. Have you seen Manny? Is he… is he with… with Rhiada?"

Gerhild bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from tearing up. When she spoke, she couldn't help the huskiness that crept into her voice. "No, Argis, Maniel is with my son, Hamming. They're sharing a room in the palace. A nurse is watching them for us, so we could attend the funeral."

"Oh, aye, ah, very good." Argis continued to look a little confused, a little lost, but Gerhild's presence was reassuring. "If you don't mind, my Thane, I'd like to stay by your side."

"I don't mind," she shook her head. "Let's take a walk, and check on Maniel and Hamming. Vorstag," she turned back to him, "I'll meet you later, at the feast."

He nodded, watching her lead the lumbering housecarl to someplace a little less crowded.

"He's not himself yet, is he?" Ralof asked, also watching, though not expecting an answer. "Ya know, he was fairly agitated when I found him, pacing the street and staring at everyone around him. Sweating. Hands shaking. He didn't seem to know me at first, then when he thought he recognized me, he started asking if I could help him find Gerhild. He looked so lost, so confused, almost scared even. Is that part of his, er, illness?"

"Illness," Vorstag repeated, taking a deep breath when Gerhild and Argis turned a corner and disappeared from his sight. "Not quite the right term. But, aye, crowds seem to upset him. Might be the noise, or all the faces, but he knows he's supposed to be protecting Gerhild, and a crowd makes it harder for him to see danger coming. So he gets more upset, especially if she isn't with him. Nothing to worry about now, though; Gerhild will calm him down, take him to see the boys, where it's cool and quiet."

Ralof nodded. "What about Rhiada? How can he not remember that she's dead?"

"It's still kinda new to him," Vorstag answered. "Danica said that his mind will be slower for a time, that he'll have trouble remembering new things. But the more consistent we are with him, the more something is repeated for him, the more likely he will be to learn it. It is kinda strange, though; this is the first time in almost a month that he's brought up Rhiada. Usually Gerhild and Maniel are the only two people he looks for; the rest of us are remembered if we're there, or not if we're not."

"And he continues to have no memory of that night? The fire? Any of it?"

Vorstag shook his head.

"His memory loss predates the night of the fire," Vilkas filled in, as Vorstag didn't seem able to do so, "More than a month beforehand. What he does recall comes and goes in patches; mostly he just remembers who or what is important to him, like Gerhild. But whatever happened that night, however the fire started, will remain a mystery."

Ralof suddenly smacked his forehead, a pained expression on his gentle features. "Forgive me, Vorstag, I just remembered that the two of you were close once, you and Argis. This must be hard for you."

Vorstag had to clear his throat before he could speak. "In a way, but it's also paying a debt. When I was young, there was a time when I found myself…" he swallowed; he never really wanted to remember that part of his life, that year spent underground, deep inside Cidhna Mine, "Well, let's just say I was a bit lost, too. Argis helped me through that, showed me a purpose, got me moved past my difficulties. He saved my life. Now I get to return the favor. Come on," he flung an arm over each of their shoulders, "I don't know about you, but sitting on an uncomfortable bench while a priest in love with the sound of his own voice gives a long-winded speech," he paused to take a dramatically deep breath, "Makes me unbearably thirsty. Let's find Farkas, slip into the Candlehearth Hall for a mug or two, before we have to attend the feast up at the palace."

"Aye!" both men enthusiastically agreed in unison, whether because they also wanted to drop the subject, or because they wanted to drink, no one bothered to determine.

* * *

Supper that night was less of a formal affair than the previous nights, now that the rites were finished. There were no more bards composing ballads of Ulfric's life. No exaggerated tales of adventures from younger days. No grandiose toasts to anyone's honor or legacy. No feats of strength when the warriors grew too deep in their cups. Indeed, for a Nordic feast, it was very tame.

The head of the table sat empty, save for the Jagged Crown placed reverently upon a purple velvet cushion. Galmar and Jorleif sat to one side, Gerhild and Vorstag across from them. The Jarls and Stewards ranged down the length, talking amongst themselves. Gone were the lower ranking nobles and dignitaries, the common rabble, the minor characters. Tonight was a feast mainly for the leaders of Skyrim, the men of import, the ones who would make world-changing decisions.

Gerhild was disinclined to make conversation with Galmar or Jorleif, still somewhat wary of being pressed again to accept the regency. Vorstag, too, was quiet, but that was normal for him when surrounded by Jarls and nobles. The others along the table seemed more than able to converse, and the topic of choice worried her. Every time a snippet or two of the various conversations reached her ears, she more and more felt that Jagged Crown sitting heavy on her brow. Inescapable. Like Fate.

"…thought you were retired, Ralof. Moved back to Riverwood to work for a wealthy lord or something."

"What? Oh, you mean the uniform. I only brought it out for the funeral. Be heading back home tomorrow…"

"…such a simple man. I don't see why she insists on keeping him in her service. He can't be much good as a housecarl…"

"…aye, the Forsworn have been giving us some trouble, but not as much as when Madanach was still alive…"

"…no trouble from any bandits since she cleared out Valtheim Towers. Kinda nice for a change, to be able to travel along the White River without worrying…"

"…not much to do now that the vampires are pretty much eradicated, thanks to the Dragonborn. Still hearing rumors about werewolves…"

"…it just sits there. They all stare at it. Well, someone needs to wear the Jagged Crown…"

"…haven't seen any Draugr since she cleared out that old barrow…"

"…Gildergreen blooms every spring, now…"

"…she alone offered to help my master…"

"…couldn't have done it without her…"

"…all thanks to the Dragonborn…"

She wished she could stop her ears.

As if in answer to her unvoiced prayer, Thongvor stood up, drinking horn in hand, and slapped the side of it with the hilt of his dagger. It made a very loud, very hard to ignore sound, and the buzzing of the others drew to silence.

"If I might have everyone's attention? Thank you," he said gruffly, not waiting for a response. He squared his shoulders and looked up and down the table, smiling a false smile. "First, I'd like to say that the death of a High King is never an easy thing…"

Elisif, the Jarl from Solitude and widow of the previous High King, shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

"…but the time for grieving is finished. Allow me to give the final toast: to Ulfric, Stormcloak, Jarl of Eastmarch, High King of Skyrim!"

A round of agreement echoed through the Main Hall. Torbjorn, his arm around Tova, shifted awkwardly in his seat, feeling offended that his daughter's death was being ignored. Gerhild saw his reaction, and in a fit of petty spite, stood up and lifted her own drinking horn. "I pray you, Thongvor, that you would indulge me and let me to add to your toast." She didn't wait for his permission, but lifted her chin and addressed the Hall in general, "And to his wife, Nilsine, faithful bride, nurturing mother, loving daughter, one who was like a sister to me!"

Her toast rang out like a challenge, like a thrown gauntlet directed at Thongvor, daring him to defy her. The other Jarls and Stewards didn't take up the cheer, staring between Thongvor and Gerhild. Slowly, the false smile slipping from his features, he lifted his horn to her and agreed, "To Lady Nilsine."

Again a round of cheers echoed, but Gerhild was beginning to read the situation. The way the others waited for Thongvor's acknowledgement told her that they were following his lead, listening to the Jarl of Markarth—even in the face of the Dragonborn. Aye, she was sure now there was a plot to get her to take the Jagged Crown, that nearly every Jarl and Steward there was in on it, and stubbornly she grew more determined than ever to avoid it.

Thongvor cleared his throat, still standing, watching until Gerhild reclaimed her seat beside Vorstag. "As I'm sure you all know," he began, his brow slightly furrowed with seriousness, the fake grin completely vanished, "After a High King passes, the new one is elected from among us Jarls. We could call a moot, but that would take time, and time is something we may not have. As soon as the Thalmor learn of Ulfric's death, they will no doubt try once more to invade our shores and deny us freedom of worship. Also, the Imperials could see this as an opportunity to reabsorb us into the Empire, taking advantage of our lack of leadership. Since we need a new High King, a strong High King, as soon as possible—and since everyone necessary for a moot is already here—I thought it prudent to begin the proceedings now. Tonight. Are there any objections?"

"Your reasoning is sound, Thongvor," Dengeir of Falkreath said, his wizened head bobbing with agreement. Gerhild barely kept herself from rolling her eyes; of course the senile, paranoid old man sharing a border with Cyrodiil would be the first to give in to Thongvor's scare tactics. "I second your motion."

Thongvor had to take a deep breath and regain his temper before he could answer, "Thank you."

"If you are calling a moot tonight," Vilkas began to rise, Farkas quickly downing the last of his drink before following suit, "Then no doubt you'll wish for privacy. The rest of us should leave."

"Not you, Harbinger," Thongvor quickly stopped him with his hand outstretched. "I mean, I would ask that you stay and chair this moot. I know the Companions take no sides in political matters, which is why you would be the perfect choice to keep the rest of us in line and on topic."

Vilkas paused, half standing and half sitting, and looked up and down the table. Most of the Jarls seemed to be nodding their heads, as if his acceptance was a foregone conclusion. He remembered the conversation with Gerhild earlier that evening, and couldn't help himself. He looked to her, lastly, searching for an answer on what he should do, what would suit her. She remained calm and unreadable, giving him no clue as to what his decision should be, so he reclaimed his seat. "A flattering offer, Thongvor. Very well, in the interests of remaining neutral and doing what's best for Skyrim, I'll chair this moot."

"Here! Here!" Skald, the Jarl of Dawnstar, pounded the table with his horn.

"We need no mages at this table," Jarl Korir of Winterhold glared evilly at Tolfdir, the elderly mage representing the College of Magic. "You are dismissed!" Tolfdir looked like he wanted to argue, but he was too old and tired to put up much of a fight. He rose with Isran of the Dawnguard and started for the doors.

"I know I'm not leaving," Viarmo, Headmaster of the Bards College, remained steadfastly at the table, arms crossed over his chest.

"You're not a Nord…"

"I am a bard," he quickly overrode the objection, not even bothering to determine who had made it, "It is my duty to document historic occasions for future records. And this will undoubtedly be an historic occasion."

"Viarmo will stay," Vilkas stepped in, voicing his first decision as chair, "But only in his capacity as a bard. He will not contribute to the discussions this evening. Is that agreeable to all?" Though he asked the question, he was going to allow Viarmo to stay with or without their assent.

Thongvor cleared his throat again and nodded, yet again seeming to speak for the Jarls.

"Come, my love," Vorstag began to rise, holding his hand out to help Gerhild to her feet, "Let's leave them to it." She smiled demurely and took his hand, rising up and extricating herself smoothly from the bench despite her encumbering skirts.

"But, Lady Gerhild, you must stay."

"Why is that, Thongvor?" she countered, sounding slightly surprised. "I am neither a Jarl nor a Steward, nor will I be recording this for the history books."

"But… but… you are regent of Eastmarch."

"I am, Thongvor," Torbjorn lifted his hand, "I am acting as regent for my granddaughter."

Thongvor's face reddened, his eyes dancing like fire. He turned his ire first on Galmar, his voice venomous as he lost control and demanded, "What is this? You were supposed to ask Gerhild to be regent. That's what we agreed upon!"

Silence greeted his outburst. Those near the doors, Isran and Tolfdir among them, hesitated to listen for a moment. Ralof and Farkas, too, just about to close the doors to the upstairs guest rooms, stopped to watch the tableau unfolding.

Galmar refused to look up from his horn, his features gray with age and fatigue.

"He did make the offer," Gerhild decided to stand up for him. The poor man was in an impossible situation, through no fault of his own, nor her own for that matter, "But I declined. I did suggest Torbjorn would make a good regent. I'm glad he took my advice." She smiled at Torbjorn, who acknowledged her with a nod of his head.

"But we had this planned," Thongvor had the bit in his teeth, unable to let it go, "Gerhild, as a regent, would be eligible for the Crown."

"I know. And I tried. But in case you haven't noticed," Galmar groused, "It is impossible to get the Dragonborn to do anything she doesn't want to do." He took a healthy swig of his mead.

"Don't I know it," muttered Vorstag under his breath, his voice reaching no further than Gerhild's ears. She was hard pressed to keep from laughing at his comment, despite the seriousness of the situation.

"Torbjorn, step down," Thongvor summarily dismissed the grieving father with a flick of his fingers. These same fingers shook as they pointed to Gerhild. "Gerhild, you must become regent. It's the only way for you to take the Jagged Crown!"

"I don't want it," she said simply.

"You must!" Thongvor insisted, spittle collecting at the sides of his mouth. "It is your destiny!"

"My 'destiny' was to become the Last Dragonborn and save Nirn from Alduin, the World-Eater. I know recent events may have overshadowed the news, but in case you didn't hear, Alduin is dead. My destiny, my fate, is complete. The rest of my life is my own to live as I choose, and I choose to spend my life with my husband and son."

"You cannot walk away from this, from us. You are a daughter of Eastmarch. Your duty is to your Hold and your Jarl. You swore an oath!"

"My oath," she repeated, the only outward show of her irritation was one delicate eyebrow curving upwards. Hadn't she had this conversation with Galmar just a few hours prior? Slowly she moved around Vorstag, down the length of the table, as she spoke. "Aye, I swore an oath of fealty to Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Eastmarch, out of respect for my mother and father, and the love they both bore him. I faithfully discharged every duty he assigned me. I spied out Stormcloak supporters in the Reach—on his orders. I uncovered the Jagged Crown—to solidify his claim to the throne. I lead the Stormcloaks into battle—in his name and by his stead. I killed dragons outside half the Holds in Skyrim—for his glory. I chased the Thalmor from this land—for him. And my obligations died—with him."

Thongvor did not like the way the evening was turning out. Though he had gotten most of the Jarls on his side already, and had even managed to coerce Galmar into helping him, it seemed Gerhild had no idea the honor he was trying to bestow upon her. Stupid chit! "What about your oath to me?" he taunted her. "You are a Thane of the Reach, after all."

The eyebrow refused to lower. "Very well. I've been meaning to do this for some time, but since you brought it up…" She pulled her shoulders back, and for a moment Vorstag was concerned she might Shout at Thongvor. Instead she spoke in a clear and steady tone, "I, Gerhild North-Wind of Skyrim, to hereby renounce my Thaneship in the Reach, and all titles, honors, duties, lands and fees associated with it. I'm sorry, Argis," she turned to smile sadly at him, standing a few paces behind Vorstag, always ready and alert should she need him, "But as I'm no longer Thane, you can no longer be my housecarl. You'll have to return to the Reach with Jarl Thongvor, serve him and protect him from now on."

"He's no good to me," Thongvor snarled. "He's damaged… crippled… he's not fit to act as a housecarl."

"He's not? That's good to hear. Argis," she turned back to him, "Since you're no longer a housecarl, and unemployed, I'd like to hire you as my personal bodyguard."

She had stopped a few paces from Thongvor, not wishing to appear too confrontational, but he closed the distance now, grabbing her arm and yanking her around to face him. "You…! You're…!" Whatever he wanted to say evaporated beneath the icy stare she offered him. Still he refused to back down, seeking to find some way to force her into accepting his will. "What about Whiterun? Do you renounce that Thaneship?"

"She has no reason to," Balgruuf spoke up, his eyes glinting like black beetles. "I would never presume to give orders to the Dragonborn."

Gerhild was mildly surprised. She and Balgruuf had not been on the best of terms for quite some time; he blamed her for his current situation, a powerless Jarl, a figurehead to be taken out and paraded at social events. Yet it seemed he understood a bit of what was going on, and approved of Gerhild's decision to have nothing to do with it.

Vignar quickly tried to reassert his control over the puppet Jarl. "Be still, Balgruuf."

"Do not tell me what to do," he countered. "Ulfric is dead, and your authority with him! But I am still Jarl of Whiterun. I will name my own Steward as soon as we return home. And you, Vignar, can retire back to Jorrvaskr."

Vilkas tapped his horn on the table. "We are getting off topic here…"

"Agreed," Thongvor again jumped on the chance to speak, this time taking a different tactic. If he couldn't appeal to her sense of honor, he'd appeal to her sense of responsibility. "Gerhild, listen to reason. You are the reason the Thalmor left Skyrim. They fear you. If you leave us, if you walk away from us, how long do you think it will be before they invade. We'll all be enslaved again. You can't tell me you want that. No, Dragonborn, you have to lead us. You have to help us keep our freedom."

"I gave you your freedom, Thongvor. It's up to you to keep it. Besides," she sniffed, taking the time to look critically at a chipped nail, "The Thalmor won't return for a generation or two. They play the long game, thinking themselves eternal. I doubt they'll be back before our deaths, or the deaths of our children. Should give you plenty of time to prepare, learn to use a sword, grow a pair, those sorts of things."

She was goading him, deliberately, maliciously, but she would not become the next High King, er, Queen. She had to nip this in the bud, now, before it gained any momentum, before it truly did become her fate. Keeping him off balance was one tactic, making it harder for him to argue.

"Stop acting like a child!" he nearly spit at her. "You cannot walk away from this, Gerhild. There is no place in Skyrim where you can hide, where we won't find you."

"Careful, Thongvor," her Thu'um echoed in her voice, much like it had when she'd had this conversation with Galmar, "It almost sounds as if you are about to threaten me."

"I am." He hated doing it, but she forced his hand. "Most of us here have already agreed to naming you High King of Skyrim. And you will be. You will not neglect your destiny! Or I'll have every Stormcloak soldier searching for you, from the Sea of Ghosts to the Jerall Mountains, from here to the Reach! You will be High King, or else!"

"Do not threaten me," her voice rumbled throughout the Hall. "In case you don't recall, I commanded the Stormcloaks during the Civil War. I did so in Ulfric's name, aye, but the men and women—they followed me, not Ulfric. Do you think you can persuade them to do something that I am against?"

Galmar nodded, silently, but he knew the truth of her words. He had been there, at her side, while thousands of soldiers lifted her name in praise. Ralof, too, from the other side of the Hall, and every soldier standing guard that night, knew there wasn't a soul among them who would defy her.

"And even if you could," she pushed onward, relentless, "Even if you hired mercenaries and sellswords and every honor-less bandit within this land. Even if you put a bounty on my head, threatening my life, my husband's life, my son's life, I would still elude you. No matter how many you send against me. For I have been to Sovngarde in body not just spirit. I have challenged Tsun and gained entrance to the Hall of Valor. I have fought beside the heroes of old. And I have killed a god." This time she closed the distance between them, standing straight and tall and eying him with her dead, violet orbs. "Set yourself against me at your own peril."

She turned to walk towards Vorstag, bravely showing Thongvor her back, as if daring him to throw a knife at it. Upon reaching her husband, she paused long enough to look over her shoulder and say, "Pick another, for I will not wear the Jagged Crown. That is my final word on the subject."

Then she took Vorstag's arm, and together they walked from the Hall, Argis following faithfully on their heels.

They were joined by Ralof and Farkas, still just behind the door leading to the stairs. The two were slack jawed in awe of her, and possibly a little concerned for Vorstag's mental health. What kind of man would willingly live with such a woman?

"You, ah," Farkas scratched the side of his nose, "You sure about this, Gerhild? You'd make a pretty good High King, ya know."

"That's debatable," she allowed, leading the way up the stairs towards the guest wing, "But I am sure I do not want to find out." Seeing the concern creasing the gentle giant's features, she relaxed a little. "I'm tired, Farkas. I've done so much for this place, these people. It's time they do a little bit of it themselves, don't you think?"

"I suppose so…" he hummed.

"Besides, I've been spending far too much time away from Hamming as of late. Every time I turn around, he's grown another inch or gained another pound."

"He is getting pretty big," Farkas agreed. "But, well, um, where would you go? You and Vorstag? I mean, you gave up your home in Markarth. And your home in Whiterun burned down. You have no place to live now, do you?"

Vorstag shot a glance at Ralof before he could stop himself. Ralof looked up towards the ceiling trying not to give anything away. Gerhild alone kept her face impassive as she set a hand on Farkas' arm. "It might prove challenging for a time, but don't worry about us, Farkas. We will make a home for ourselves."

"And then I can come visit, right?" he paused outside the door of the bedchamber he shared with his brother. "I promised Hamming I'd teach him how to use a greatsword."

Gerhild smiled, thinking of how that would be some years down the road yet, "Tell you what. We'll come visit you."

"Promise?" he pressed.

"Promise," she affirmed.

"Well, suppose that's alright then, just so you keep your word. Good night, Gerhild. 'night Vorstag. Ralof. Argis." He nodded to each of them, then closed the door for the night.

"You almost gave it away," Ralof said softly, smacking Vorstag in the gut.

"Sorry, it was just that his question caught me off guard," he rubbed at the spot while they resumed walking. "By the way, how are the repairs coming along? We may need to move in sooner than we planned."

"Nearly done," Ralof looked up and down the hallway to make sure no one was close enough to hear them. "All the walls are in place, but a few of the doors aren't finished yet. And then there's the little things, like locks and chandeliers and furniture…"

"Furniture is a little thing?" Gerhild quipped.

"Aye, just smaller tables and shelves and the like. The beds are finished, at least."

Vorstag and Gerhild exchanged a look. "Argis and I can manage the little things, so long as the roof is repaired and the walls are up," he decreed.

"I guess it will have to do," she sighed. "Ralof, if you don't mind leaving at first light, would you care for some company while traveling back home to Riverwood?"

"I would be honored," he bowed.

"Argis," she turned to her new bodyguard/former housecarl. "Argis, we're going to be leaving very early in the morning. Before you go to bed tonight, make sure you and Maniel are packed and ready to go. Understood?"

"Aye, Lady Gerhild," he nodded.

She sighed, looking up and down the hallway. "Well, then, I guess this is good night, gentlemen."

Ralof and Argis nodded before leaving Gerhild and Vorstag outside their bedchamber door. Vorstag turned the latch, opening the portal and ushering his wife inside first. "You sure about this, Gerhild? Farkas is right; you would make a very good High King, er, Queen."

"I'm positive," she affirmed, stepping into the darkened room. She stopped just inside, so abruptly that Vorstag nearly plowed into her back. He had to slip around her, and was about to ask what was wrong, when her words rang out softly, "Vorstag, hold still. We are not alone."


	17. Kinda Like Old Times

_"Laas Yah Nir."_

No matter how many times he heard that Shout, barely louder than a breath, it always sent shivers down his spine. Vorstag held himself very still, knowing that Gerhild was looking around the room with her other senses, her Dragonborn senses. Somehow she had known that someone was in the room with them, and the Shout would tell her exactly where the culprit was hiding.

This was the part he hated, the waiting, the nervous anticipation, the wondering if the intruder was friend or foe, living or Draugr, Nord or—he swallowed thickly—Thalmor.

Her hand reached out to his, fingertips lightly tapping on his skin, indicating he should move to the left. She must have ascertained the location of their unseen visitor, and was positioning him to cut off any escape routes. As quietly as his big, heavy feet would allow, he started shuffling to the left.

"I know you can see me, Lady Gerhild," a male voice sounded in the darkness. "Let's not waste any time with…"

 _"Yol!"_ she Shouted, a breath of flame shooting from her towards the hearth. Despite the frost spell the intruder had used on it earlier, the wood quickly ignited, flooding the room with flickering light. Vorstag was already behind the intruder, silhouetted in the flames, but not so that he couldn't recognize the red and black armor of a member of the Dark Brotherhood.

"You!" was his war cry as he leaped forwards, wrapping his massive arms around the assassin. Yet it wasn't in time. One of the assassin's arms shot forwards, a dagger flying from his fingertips, directly for Gerhild's heart.

"NOOOO!" Vorstag cried, his blood roaring in his ears, his vision turning red and tunneling down. He could not believe that this was happening, that he hadn't been fast enough, that Gerhild could be killed so easily. His arm tightening around the assassin's neck as the veins began to stand out in his own neck from the strain. He was either going to choke the man to death, or snap the bones, he couldn't decide which, hesitating for several seconds. During this time, he began to notice a couple of things; first, the assassin wasn't trying to fight back. And second, Gerhild wasn't harmed.

"Vorstag," she called softly, calmly, barely reaching him through the bloodlust pounding in his skull. "Vorstag, it's alright. Let him go."

He nearly obeyed, overjoyed that his love was alive, but then reason took control of his muscles. "He's an assassin," he growled, muscles flexing, making the assassin's breath wheeze even harder. "One of the Dark Brotherhood. The same group that tried to kill you a few weeks ago. And just now he threw that dagger…"

"I know, Vorstag, that's what I want you to see. He did try to kill me just now," she stepped closer to her husband, a hand reaching out, "With that dagger, but he couldn't. Look at it, Vorstag. Do you see it? Do you recognize the dagger?"

Vorstag took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He didn't like this side of himself, this sudden anger, this lack of self-control, but he also didn't like having people out to kill him, attacking him and his love in their own bedchamber…

He took another breath. Gerhild was alive. The dagger never touched her. The dagger…

His arms relaxed slightly, allowing the assassin to gasp for air. The dagger lay on the floor, its steel blade reflecting the firelight. Aye, he knew that blade, that enchanted dagger that would not harm the friend of the one who wielded it. How many times had Gerhild almost sliced him open with it, he wondered. And she had given it to an orphaned boy, a young man, who had joined the Dark Brotherhood. "Aventus?"

"Aye," the young man choked, "Are you gonna let go now?"

Vorstag pressed his thin lips into an even thinner line. "Don't think so. Not until we get a few answers."

Gerhild rolled her eyes, but did so as she bent over to retrieve the dagger. "I'm sorry for my husband's actions, Aventus," she started, "But it's been a tiring couple of months. And someone did try to assassinate me. In Whiterun. A member of your order."

"Astrid," he nodded, or tried to, his chin propped up in the crook of Vorstag's arm. "She was acting against the Night Mother's wishes."

"So the Dark Brotherhood isn't after me, despite the contract?"

He tried to shake his head, but Vorstag's muscles kept him in place. "Please, let me go and I'll tell you everything. I promise."

"Why should we trust you?" he flexed again, just because he could.

"First, there's the dagger," Aventus' voice was wheezing again, but he did the best he could to forced the words out, "Second, because I need your help. The Sanctuary has been destroyed. We were betrayed. Please, Lady Gerhild, call him off!"

Gerhild suppressed the sigh. Stuhn's Shield, but she was tired, and the last thing she wanted to do was take off on yet another adventure. But Aventus had a soft spot in her heart; he was a kindred spirit, like a little brother. She handed him his dagger before setting her cool fingers on Vorstag's arm. "Vorstag," her deep blue eyes searched his hardened brown.

He hesitated. He tried to resist her. But in the end he knew she was right. He gave a little shove as he let go, feeling a petty moment of pleasure as Aventus staggered forward a step or two. "Fine. So. What happened? Why do you suddenly need Gerhild's help?"

"It's kinda a long story…" Aventus hedged, rubbing at his throat. "Mind if I have something to drink before I get started?"

Gerhild glided over to a side table where a pitcher and two goblets were waiting. She poured a healthy amount of wine into one and handed it over. Aventus sniffed at it, made a face—he'd much rather have preferred mead—but eventually took three long swallows of the liquid.

"Where to begin?" he sighed, looking into the dark red wine. "You remember there was that man, the one-eared Altmer, who put a contract on your life…?"

They spent the next several hours going over and over the events. Aventus shared everything with them, how he heard about the fire that destroyed their home in Whiterun and how he found Astrid lurking through the nearby countryside—they reasoned she had been the one who tried to kill Gerhild, as she was the only member unaccounted for after everything that had happened. He also told them about the destruction of the Sanctuary, how it had been a one-eared Altmer who somehow learned the location and gave it to the soldiers. They, too, shared with Aventus, from what they knew about the fire that destroyed Breezehome to Ulfric's attempt to poison Vorstag by using Benor… It was messy, complicated, and unclear in several areas, so it was with no small surprise when Gerhild realized half the night had gone.

"So," Gerhild flattened an imaginary crease on her skirts. She and Vorstag were sitting side-by-side on the bed, Aventus on a chair across from them. "You think it was Norilar who showed the soldiers to the Sanctuary?"

"Has to be," Aventus groused. "The soldier we found, the man he described, a one-eared Altmer…?"

"Aye, aye," she sighed, knowing it had to be true, "But how did he know where to find the Sanctuary? Or how to enter it? Only a member would know that, correct?"

"Aye," Aventus slouched down into his chair. "That's what worries me most. Most of the Brotherhood members are dead; only myself and two others survived—and the Night Mother, and we were all in the Sanctuary and fighting for our lives." He paused, his dark brows furrowing. "Well, there's one more, but he's been hiding so far up north, afraid of his shadow, I don't think he could have had anything to do with this. Cicero is, well, insane, I think."

"Insanity doesn't rule him out," Vorstag opined. "Ulfric was insane, and he plotted my death."

"Aye, but Cicero loves the Night Mother," Aventus reasoned, "He would never do anything to harm her. And burning down the Sanctuary would definitely harm her."

"So, who did wish her harm?"

It hit him so hard, his jaw dropped as if he had been physically struck by the revelation. "…Astrid…"

"Who?" Gerhild pressed.

"Astrid. The one who tried to kill you. Our leader. She… she's been at odds with Cicero ever since he showed up with the Night Mother. And I don't think she's ever placed any faith in my position as Listener."

"And she was in Whiterun, trying to fulfill a contract that the Night Mother had rejected. Norilar's contract." Gerhild's deep blue eyes darkened into violet as she searched through the icy depths of this plot. "It's possible. She was hanging around Whiterun at the right time. What if…" she stood up, needing to pace, to burn off the extra energy her mind was demanding, "What if Norilar was near Whiterun, too, waiting to see his contract fulfilled? What if he and Astrid ran into each other?"

"She offered to kill you, if he led the soldiers to the Sanctuary," Aventus finished. "Fuck!"

"Language," Vorstag chided out of habit.

"Hamming isn't here," Gerhild countered absently, "He's sleeping with Maniel and Argis. It fits. It all fits. But how do we prove it? Astrid is dead. And Norilar is nowhere to be found."

Aventus smiled. It wasn't a happy smile. Nor a laughing smile. But it was a satisfied smile. "That's why I came here tonight. That's why I need your help. Someone is performing the Black Sacrament."

"Do you mean…" Vorstag had to swallow.

"I don't know for sure," Aventus admitted, "I never know who it is before I get there. But I do know the general area where the Sacrament is being performed." He looked up at Gerhild. "In Haafingar Hold, a little ways northwest of Solitude."

"The Thalmor Embassy."

Gerhild hadn't asked a question, but Aventus nodded anyway.

"It's been deserted since before the fall of Solitude, before the end of the Civil War. The Thalmor all left it."

"All except Norilar," Vorstag reminded her. "Aye, if anyone would dare to inhabit an area once lived in by Thalmor, it would be another Thalmor."

Her eyes glinted in the flickering light. "And you want us to go with you, to see who is performing the Black Sacrament, in the hopes that it is Norilar."

Aventus nodded again.

"I have to ask," she pressed, not wanting any sore feelings or misunderstandings, not wanting anything to stand in her way of seeking revenge, "How the Night Mother—and Sithis—feel about this? Are they comfortable with the notion of our going with you on Dark Brotherhood business?"

"I had to do a little bit of fast talking," he shrugged, "But, aye, after what happened at the Sanctuary, the Night Mother is a bit more open to accepting outside assistance. Both of them agree that Norilar needs to be dealt with. You help me, and they will see to it that you and your family never fall victim to a contract."

Gerhild and Vorstag looked at each other. The massive Nord shrugged his shoulders. "I would have done this regardless."

"Are you sure," she had to ask, knowing how deeply Norilar affected him, how long he had been tortured by him, how badly damaged he had been left. "You don't have to come with, Vorstag. You could take Hamming back home and wait for…"

"No," he said flatly. If there was any hesitation, any fear, any trepidation or doubt, he sealed it away behind his thinly pressed lips. "Where you go, I follow. Besides, I have just as much of a reason to kill the bastard as you do. Maybe more." His eyes softened, not by much, but enough to show his sincerity, like the eyes of a lost little puppy. "I want to come along."

She nodded. "Very well, it's settled. Now we just have to figure out what to do with Hamming."

* * *

Less than an hour later, Gerhild was in full dragonscale armor, her trusted dragonbone war axe slung at her side. Her shoulders were pulled back, her features set, as she reached out to knock on the door before her.

She was fairly sure she wouldn't have to knock too loudly. The occupants inside were Companions, warriors, trained to be ready to fight at a moment's notice. Indeed, after only a heartbeat she could hear movement from within the room, the thumping of large bare feet across a stone floor, and the rattle of the door latch being handled.

Farkas blinked in the light from the hallway. His hair was mussed, his trousers wrinkled, his massive and hairy chest bare. He absently scratched at an itch near one armpit as he yawned, "Oh, Gerhild. Morning. Is it morning?" He blinked in confusion at the darkened room behind him.

"Not quite yet," she answered. "Excuse me, Farkas, I'm sorry to wake you, but is Vilkas here, too? I need to speak with both of you."

"Oh, um," he paused to look over his shoulder, "Guess not. Must be downstairs with the moot."

"You didn't wait up for him?"

Farkas shrugged, "He's a grown man, he can find his own way to bed. Do you want me to send for him?"

She pondered for a moment. "No, I suppose not. Farkas, I have to ask yet another favor of you."

"Sure," he settled a shoulder against the frame of the door, then thought better of it. "Oh, ah, you wanna come in?"

"No, this won't take long. I need, that is to say, Vorstag and I need you to watch Hamming again. Just for a few days…"

"And Maniel," Vorstag added, stomping down the hallway, Argis and the boys in tow. "Sorry, Gerhild, but Argis is refusing to stay behind…"

"You are traveling into danger, my Thane," he insisted, "I should be there to protect you."

"Um," Farkas eyed a guard passing at the end of the hallway, "Maybe we should take this inside. Somewhere a little more private."

Gerhild sighed, "Sorry to impose…"

"Don't worry about it," Farkas waved it aside. He held the door opened and allowed everyone to enter before closing off any unwanted listeners. "So, what's going on this time?"

"Norilar," she answered. "You remember the Thalmor who tortured me? The one who faked Vorstag's death so he could torture him? The one who performed the Black Sacrament, trying to get the Dark Brotherhood to kill me? You went with Vorstag to look for him not too far from here."

"Aye," he yawned again, trying to cover his massive mouth with an equally massive hand. "Excuse me. I remember. We couldn't figure out where he went from there." He nodded towards Vorstag.

"We think we know where he is now," he answered, "But we have to hurry if we're gonna catch him. We were wondering," he paused, thinking back over their discussion. He had wanted to send Hamming with Ralof, but Gerhild argued that Ralof would have his hands full preparing their house. Besides, if there were any rogue dragons about, Riverwood wasn't protected enough to keep Hamming safe—not without Gerhild herself being there. That left… "Would you, the Companions I mean, be willing to watch Hamming again? One last time? It should only be for a few days."

"And Manny," Argis added.

"And Manny," Vorstag repeated.

"Argis, you don't have to come with," Gerhild tried.

"I'm not letting you go off adventuring without me. You could get hurt. Or need me to fight off some bandits. I have sworn an oath to you, my Thane, to protect you with my life." He was agitated, his eyes a little too bright, his hand clutching the hilt of his sword until his fingers were white with tension.

"Take him with you," Farkas said. "In fact, I'd go with you, too, if I could. But I've gotta watch the boys." He smiled and winked at Maniel, the small boy sleepily clutching at his papa's leg. Maniel gave him a bashful smile before rubbing his nose against Argis.

"Are you sure you don't mind? What about Vilkas; would he object? I know we keep imposing on you…"

"Don't worry about it. After all you've done for the Companions, it's the least we can do. I mean, sure, I'd rather be the one going with you, fighting for you like you've fought for us," he obliquely referred to how she helped him battle his beast form and free himself from Hircine's curse, "But keeping the boys safe is important, too. Besides," he took the baby from Vorstag's arms, "Vilkas has finally said I'm allowed to hold Hamming."

Gerhild smiled, a little sadly, as she watched the lumbering giant expertly handle the sleeping babe, cradling him gently in the crook of his arm. Farkas was very good with children, even Maniel didn't mind it when Argis told him to stay with Farkas. She walked up to him and leaned over her slumbering son. "Goodbye, Hamming," she whispered, and pressed her lips lightly against his cheek. "This will be the last time I leave you. I promise."

"He'll be safe and sound," Farkas also promised, "Both of the boys will be. We'll have so much fun, they won't realize how long you'll be gone. Just you three take care of yourselves."

"We will," Argis vowed.

Gerhild couldn't speak. It grew harder and harder each time she had to leave her son. She gave Farkas a final smile, her eyes shining like amethysts, and turned to leave.

She was joined a few moments later by Argis and Vorstag, the men taking a little longer to say goodbye. She didn't turn back around to see the door close, she didn't jealously steal one last look at her boy. Instead she started walking down the hallway, her steps sure, her course laid out. "How did Ralof take the news?" she asked quietly, forcing herself to move on.

"Didn't like it," Vorstag answered, "But he argued less than Argis here. He knows how important this is to us. Where were we going to meet up with, er, I mean…" his words dribbled away, realizing that Argis didn't know about the fourth member of their party.

"Outside by the docks," she answered, smoothly handling the awkward matter. "Argis, there's something you should know. There will be one more person coming with us. He's gonna be wearing strange armor, and you might not like him, but he is my friend. Do you understand?"

Argis nodded agreeably. "As you say, my Thane."

"Good man," she affirmed. She paused beside a door, looking up and down the hallway to make sure there were no guards about. "Ready for a little climbing?"

"The same way as last time?" Vorstag sighed. "Aye, let's get this over with." He followed the other two into the room and closed the door behind them.

Vorstag was surprised. He had figured on some level, somehow, the guards or Galmar or someone would have learned of how he and Gerhild had entered and left the palace after their last visit. Of course, no one knew they had come here in the middle of the night to confront Ulfric regarding his attempt to murder him…

"Ah, my Thane," Argis' gruff voice broke into his thoughts, "I don't mean to question you, but why are we climbing out of a window? Shouldn't we leave by the main doors?"

"I don't think that would be wise," she answered, her voice calm, as if she was discussing the weather. "The Jarls are still downstairs, holding their moot, and all our weapons and armor will make a lot of noise. If we tramp down there and through the hall, we'd be interrupting their meeting, which I'm sure they wouldn't like. So, instead, we'll climb out this handy window and be on our way without disturbing those important men."

"Oh, aye, that sounds reasonable," he agreed, but his brow remained furrowed.

The climb down was uneventful, the guards more interested in the streets than they were in the outside of the castle. Amazingly they managed the feat with only a little noise, nothing that couldn't be lost in the revelry coming from Candlehearth Hall—the Jarls may have moved on to other important matters, but the commoners were still lamenting the loss of their Jarl, their High King. It wasn't much longer before they found themselves at the docks.

The night watch was light, as only two ships were in the harbor, both with their own watchmen. The three of them flitted from shadow to shadow, easily slipping past the drowsy guards. It helped that they didn't have far to go, just past the Warehouse door to reach the open shoreline. As soon as they left the docks, a figure stepped out from behind a stone outcropping. "I didn't know you were bringing a friend."

"Argis," Gerhild's voice drifted quietly in the night air, "This is Aventus, my friend. Aventus, this is Argis, my housecarl. He's a good man, someone we can trust—you'll understand what I mean later. Shall we get going? I want to be airborne by sunrise."

"Airborne?" Aventus repeated, falling into step beside Vorstag as Argis remained protectively at Gerhild's side.

"You wanna get to the Thalmor Embassy in a hurry, right?" was her cryptic response.

Vorstag wasn't much more help, when Aventus turned to him for an explanation. "Take my advice and just hold on tight. Oh, and don't look down. I did once and lost my lunch somewhere over Rorikstead."

Aventus laughed, thinking Vorstag must be joking. He changed his mind after they reached a small clearing a few miles downstream and Gerhild called a dragon.

* * *

"And you agreed to this?" Vilkas said to his brother, probably a bit too harshly. By the Nine, but he was tired, having spent all day at a funeral, and all night cooped up with a group of fiercely arguing Jarls. He should never have let himself get talked into sitting as chair at their moot. Yet he couldn't deny, his presence had managed to keep the others in line somewhat, especially after Gerhild's stormy withdrawal.

But it was early morning now, he had finally gotten the others to agree to adjourn for a few hours so they all could get some rest, and upon reaching the bedchamber he shared with his brother, he'd been met with a roomful of chaos. The sheets had been taken from the bed and draped over a pair of chairs. Just inside he could see where the pelts had been piled up, making a nice and cozy den for someone. There was a bowl on the floor filled with porridge, and their packs stacked up high into a precariously tipping miniature mountain.

Hamming was sitting up on the unmade bed, propped up by a pillow or two. He held a brightly colored toy in his hands, contentedly chewing and drooling over his prize. Farkas was standing, hands behind his back, a toe kicking at an imaginary spot on the floor. Maniel was kneeling next to him, a pelt over his shoulders, snuffling at his knees, still pretending to be a pup. "I had to. It was Gerhild. You know how much she's done for us, the beastblood and all that. The whole of the Companions owe her a lot. How could I say no?"

"How indeed," he wondered, rubbing at his tired and bloodshot eyes. Maniel gave up trying to gain Farkas' attention and went for Vilkas instead. He reached down and absently played along, scratching at the boy's ears like he would do to a little puppy. "Easy there, little doggie. Good boy."

"Er, he's a wolf pup."

"Same difference where we're concerned," Vilkas shrugged. "Alright, so Gerhild got a lead on where this Norilar person is, the Thalmor who's caused her and Vorstag so much grief over the past few years, and they left with Argis to hunt him down. Did she say how long she would be gone?"

"Just a few days," Farkas relaxed a little, thinking Vilkas wasn't mad at him after all.

Vilkas blew a heavy breath out of his nostrils. "Aye, fine, if she cheats like she's been doing, she might beat us back to Jorrvaskr."

"What do you mean?"

"The moot is going slowly, slower than Thongvor planned at least," he groused, walking over to sit down on the bed while he kicked off his boots. Maniel enthusiastically took one in his mouth, thinking that puppies liked to chew leather, but changed his mind once he'd taken a taste. "I think he… no, I think nearly everyone there expected Gerhild to take the throne. In their minds, she had no other choice. Now, they actually have to work out their differences before they can pick a new High King." He paused to shrug out of his coat, making a tired and somewhat disgruntled sound. "Probably for the best. Gerhild was right; everyone's been relying on her to get the job done, rather than doing the work themselves. It's time we grew up and learned to take care of ourselves." He pulled off his tunic and, as a thought, flung one sleeve towards Maniel. He snapped at it with his teeth, growling as they played tug. "But this moot is going to take some time. And knowing Gerhild, she's gonna finish Norilar off as quickly as possible. No, wait," he let Maniel take the tunic, preferring to scratch at the thick, black stubble on his cheeks, "She'll get to Norilar as quickly as possible, aye, and probably use a dragon to do so. But she'll take her time with him, make him suffer, make him pay for everything he's done to them. Maybe," he yawned, leaning back onto the mattress, setting his head on one of Hamming's pillows, "Maybe, we just might beat her home."

Hamming liked having company on the bed. He tipped himself over towards the drowsy Nord, his chubby fists trying to offer him a turn at chewing the toy. Farkas walked over to the bed, picking Hamming up so Vilkas could take a nap in peace. "You want me to wake you in an hour or so?"

"Make it four," Vilkas tried to speak around a yawn. "Gods, but I'm tired."

"Aye, four hours it is. Come on, Maniel, let's find you some food, a sweet roll or something."

"I'm a wolf!" he snarled. "I eat meat!"

"Then we'll go to the kitchens and find you a nice, juicy haunch of venison. But we have to leave, Uncle Vilkas has to take a nap."

"I'm too old for naps," Maniel proclaimed, having to jump to his feet in order to keep up with Farkas and Hamming, "But the baby isn't. He should nap, too."

"It's not time for Hamming's nap, but it is time for Uncle Vilkas' nap."

"Why does he have to nap?"

"Because I stayed up all night," Vilkas growled, not angry but trying to help his brother. "See what happens when you don't go to bed on time? You have to take naps, like me, even if you think you're too old for them. So do what Uncle Farkas tells you to do, alright?"

Maniel had to pull the pelt off his head to take a long, serious look at Vilkas. "I will. I'll behave. I promise. Come on, Uncle Farkas, we have to leave so he can nap."

The door closed, the little boy pulling the giant Companion out into the hallway. Vilkas gave a huffed sort of amused laugh, took a deep breath, and let himself drift off to sleep.

* * *

The ride on the back of the dragon went fairly much as Vorstag predicted, the only difference being Argis was the one who lost his lunch, and it was somewhere over the ruins of Alftand rather than Rorikstead. Aventus, much to Vorstag's dismay, seemed to enjoy himself during the ride, laughing with glee whenever the dragon banked to avoid over-populated areas, or swooped low to snag a light snack such as a wild goat. Gerhild allowed the little detours in the hopes of keeping the dragon in a good mood; they were making it carry four people with all their packs and gear, after all. Besides, they were making far better time than Aventus could have anticipated.

It still took two days to reach Haafingar, and another couple of hours until they were at their destination. Gerhild didn't want to land too close to the embassy; deserted or not, Norilar was there—he had to be there—and she didn't want him to know she was coming. She made the dragon circle around Solitude out over the Sea of Ghosts and come in from the north. They landed behind the mountain, not too far from the embassy but a lot lower in elevation. As soon as they dismounted, the dragon beat its wings and took flight, desperate to leave before another dragon caught it acting like a pack mule. Gerhild smirked but let the dragon go; she could always call another when the time came to leave.

"Now what?" Aventus sighed, looking almost straight up. Somewhere over their heads was the back side of the Thalmor Embassy, so close and yet so far out of reach.

"We have two options," Gerhild said matter-of-factly, "First, we climb the mountain and reach the road that will take us around to the front of the embassy. We should get to the main doors just after midnight."

"And second?" Aventus asked, hefting his pack over his shoulders, eager to get moving.

"We could go in through that cave there," she nodded to a dark hole in the mountainside, partially hidden by a large boulder. "Deep inside is a trapdoor that leads straight to the dungeons. I wouldn't recommend it, however; the Thalmor used to use that trapdoor to dispose of dead bodies. A frost troll took up residence a while back, thinking he'd found an easy source of food. But the Thalmor have been gone for so long now, the troll's probably very hungry. And very mean. We'd have to kill it, and that would mean making noise, taking a risk that one or more of us could become injured, breaking a weapon or a shield…"

"I get the point," Aventus made a face, not liking the option, but knowing it would be prudent. "We'll take the road."

Gerhild smiled at his back, again thinking of him as a younger brother, feeling a little prideful that she had instilled some sense into his skull. "Argis, why don't you scout ahead, make sure there are no wolves or other animals to deal with."

"Aye, my Thane," he nodded, drawing his sword as he strode forward.

Vorstag fell into step beside her, leaving Aventus to bring up the rear. The slope was steep, and they saved their breath for climbing. Which meant there was no conversation, nothing to distract themselves from their thoughts, and he desperately needed to be distracted. His mind was going over and over how Norilar was up head, just a little bit further, the only thing between them was snow and stone. He swallowed, trying not to but unable to keep himself from thinking about the former Thalmor, the pain Norilar caused him—mental and physical. Aye, he was healed now, of the scars at least, but emotionally he still felt the slice of the knife through his skin, the sides of the wound pulling apart, those gloved fingers slipping in between his ribs and wrapping around his heart, his blood pounding in his ears as he prayed again and again that it would just stop…

No, he had to set that aside. He’d go mad if he continued to think on it, if he let his memory of what Norilar did to him turn into fear. He and Gerhild were there to capture Norilar, not the other way around. And nothing could stop them when they were together, when they had each other’s back. Everything would work out alright. It had to. Despite the ugly knot of anxiety squirming in his guts.

By the time they reached nearly level ground, he realized he had been thinking to himself for too long. Gerhild had also been far too quiet, and not just because they were trying to sneak up on a Thalmor. He glanced at her face and saw the slight frown on her bow-shaped lips, the tiny crease form between her delicate brows, the blues of her eyes turn violet. “What is it?” he asked, as much to distract her as to distract himself, “What’s bothering you?”

She hummed a little as she looked up at him. “What? Oh, I was just thinking about Thongvor and the other Jarls, about their wanting me to take the throne.”

“You changing your mind?” he queried cautiously, relieved that her thoughts had been on different matters than his, at least.

She scoffed, “Of course not! It’s just that Thongvor was so insistent. He had it all planned out, all the lines rehearsed, all the actors in place. He had Galmar offer me the regency, and gave him the words that should have convinced me. He knew Friga being an orphan—and my close relationship with Nilsine—would work to soften my heart. And Vilkas acting as chair was the finishing touch; using such a dear and close friend of mine against me. Aye, it was a very thorough plan, and it might have worked, too.

“Ya know, he’s right, in a way,” she continued, looking around them at the snow-dusted countryside, “Thongvor, I mean. My fate, my destiny, began the moment I stepped foot on Skyrim soil. It’s been inevitable. Inescapable. The Way of the Voice. Fighting dragons. Learning Thu’ums. The Civil War. Ulfric. Miraak. Harkon. Alduin…” she bit her lip, battling down the hysteria before it could take hold. The last thing she needed before confronting Norilar was to lose control. Then Vorstag’s hand found its way into hers, a gentle squeeze reminding her she was not alone. She batted her eyes, shutting away the overwhelming emotions, and returned the squeeze.

“I cannot deny the truth. As long as the Dragonborn is in Skyrim, my fate will remain entwined with this nation. There will always be someone needing something to be done: another dragon, another ruin, another battle, another adventure. Sometimes…” she hesitated, looking off to the side. “Sometimes, I think…” she tried a second time, but what she was about to say was so horrible, so foreboding, so portentous, she feared giving it voice would seal her fate. Yet she made herself admit it to Vorstag, “I know this sounds dark and depressing, but sometimes I get the feeling that the only way I’ll truly be free—from fate, from this world, from being Dragonborn, from all the little things other people are always wanting me to do for them—“ she paused, taking a deep breath, her voice dropping in tone as well as volume, “Is years from now when I’m finally cold and dead in my grave.”

Vorstag was right; she was in a dark mood. He had to break her out of it, before they found Norilar—he feared what she was capable of when she shut off all her emotions. “That will be many years from now, Arkay willing. But this will be our last adventure, regardless of what Thongvor or anyone else wants. You and I are going to retire to our little home, raise a big family, and grow old and fat together.”

“What?” she was startled over the quick—and clumsy—change in topic. She glanced at him and saw, beneath the veneer of his affected good humor, his soft brown eyes looking hurt and vulnerable and his lips pressed thin to keep them from shaking. She hadn’t considered it before, but coming back to this area of Skyrim and facing Norilar was bringing back those things he wished to leave behind him—behind them. And her dark mood wasn’t helping. She set aside her own trepidations, making herself act strong and confident for his benefit. “I’ll grow old with you, my love, but I’ll not grow fat.”

He chuckled, briefly, but it made them both feel better. “This is kinda like old times, isn’t it,” he hummed, as nonchalant as if they were taking an evening stroll, the sun setting far behind the mountains, the light turning dull and gray.

“Old times. Aye, it is,” she agreed softly before eying him, her deep blue orbs dancing with mirth, “Except that we rode a dragon instead of slaying it. And we’re not traveling alone and unchaperoned.”

He grinned appreciatively. “Alright, not quite like old times,” he leaned in close, “But we could still spoon tonight, ya know, for warmth.”

The corner of her mouth twitched, “If you’re that cold later, fine, cuddle up with Argis. I suppose I could cuddle up with Aventus…”

“Over my dead body,” he growled, playing along, and was rewarded when she laughed softly. He felt better after that, after hearing a warm and living response from her; he always worried when she grew serious or her laughter was an act. But if she was honestly laughing, if she was alive instead of cold and closed off like she was in the old times, then he knew everything would be alright.

“If you two could hold your tongues for a moment,” Argis came jogging back down the road, his sword at the ready, his head scanning the countryside, “We’re nearly there. We should start making plans of how we’re gonna take a whole embassy with just the three of us.”

“Four,” Aventus added, coming into sight. Argis blinked at him, having already almost forgotten about the assassin.

“No worries,” Gerhild smoothed over the awkwardness. “There shouldn’t be anyone there but a single Thalmor. And he won’t be too hard to find, not when I use my Shout to detect life.”

Argis nodded, not really sure what she meant but going along with his Thane. “Aye, good, let’s get going, then.”

Gerhild took one last look at Vorstag. “You ready?”

He nodded.

“Good. Now, here’s the plan…”

 

 

 

* * *

Why do plans never go as planned, Gerhild thought rhetorically.

They had entered the front courtyard of the deserted embassy, finding no sign that it was being currently occupied. A quick search of the guards' barracks revealed little if anything of interest. A forgotten book. A sprig of dried elves ear. An old wooden bowl. Gerhild, however, had felt compelled to search every nook, unlock every chest, scrounge for every dropped septim. She told herself she was simply being thorough, not that she was feeling the need to brush the rust off of her thieving skills.

Argis had remained outside near the entrance, keeping watch in case Norilar was unaware of their presence and made himself known. Aventus, after the third locked chest without any loot in it—who locks an empty chest anyway, he grumbled to himself—left to join Argis. Vorstag, however, remained at Gerhild's side, indulging her need, her itch, to search through every corner, every crack, every crevice.

At long last, even Gerhild ran out of things to search. She and Vorstag returned to the other two, her pouch only a little bit heavier for all her efforts.

"What's next?" Argis asked, sword in hand. He was itching for a fight, the sneaking and searching too slow and too unrewarding for him.

Vorstag heard Gerhild use her Shout to detect life. "Just a moment," he said softly, not wishing to disturb her. He watched her head swivel back and forth, scanning the whole area, from barracks to courtyard to main embassy.

"Fuck," she sighed, quite unhappily.

"What is it?" Aventus asked, coming up on her other side.

"No one's here." She sounded puzzled, confused.

Aventus agreed with her feeling. "What do you mean, no one's here? The Night Mother said…" he paused, tilting his head, Listening to a voice no other could hear, "She says the Sacrament is being performed, right now, even as we speak. He has to be here."

"I don't know what to tell you," she was almost pouting she was so upset. "I used a Shout, one that detects life. And I detected no life. Not Draugr nor Falmor nor Man nor wolf… nothing!"

"You have a Shout that can detect life?" Argis asked, a little in awe of her.

"Aye, even Automatons," Vorstag confirmed. "Anything that moves, anything dangerous, anything… well… anything except a dragon. You don't need a Shout to detect a dragon."

Aventus gave a short bark of laughter at that. "Aye, I suppose you don't. So, what do we do?"

Gerhild didn't have an answer, not right away, still too upset. She hadn't doubted herself in a long time—she hadn't had reason to—but this lack of ability, this shortcoming in her Thu'um, left her feeling naked and unarmed. She didn't like the sensation, the impotence, and a terrible notion crept into the back of her mind: had she been relying upon her Thu'um too much as of late?

"Shout or no," she all but physically shoved the disturbing thought from her mind, "Someone is here. Someone is performing the Black Sacrament. And we are going to find that someone."

"How?" Vorstag asked. He had grown concerned over her furrowed brow and pouting lips, and the unease only increased with the mercurial way in which she placed it aside. He watched her closely as she answered.

"We will search the embassy. Building by building, floor by floor, room by room if we have to."

"That could take all night," Aventus eyed the large building in front of them. "Do you think we have that much time? At any moment, he could take a break from the Sacrament, walk past a window, hear something down a hallway… Then he'd know we are here."

"We'll split up," she decided. "Vorstag, you and Argis take the main building. Aventus," she turned to the assassin, "You and I will search the solar beyond the rear courtyard."

"I don't like the idea," Vorstag hedged. He wanted to keep an eye on Gerhild, not liking the dark path her thoughts had been taking ever since they started this adventure. No, that wasn't quite true; her dark mood had started with Galmar's suggestion that she become Friga's regent. "Maybe you and I could search the solar…"

"No, husband," she spoke a little to harshly, a little too quickly, but that couldn't be helped. She didn't want him anywhere near the solar. She'd already been to the embassy a couple of years ago, and knew the dungeons lay beneath the solar. With Norilar so fresh on their minds, she didn't want to think what might happen to him, what emotions or memories might resurface, if he saw such a place. "No, you and Argis search the larger building. Aventus and I will be fine. Come on," she started forwards, not allowing anyone anymore time to object, "Time's wasting."

Vorstag glared hard at her back even as she jogged away, Aventus in tow. But she did not turn around, she did not look back to see him staring at her. And after she and Aventus turned a corner and were out of sight, he had to admit to himself that she wasn't going to change her mind. He took a deep breath and signaled to Argis, "Let's get going. You wanna start at the top or the bottom?"

"The bottom," Argis decided. "Clear out the lower floors, cut off his access to the main doors, force the culprit up and up and we'll have him pinned on the top floor in no time," he paused to chuckle, "Unless he can fly out a window, that is."

Vorstag shook his head, "No, no he can't fly. Only Gerhild can do that."

"On the…" Argis hesitated outside the door, his face scrunched up, trying to remember, "…on the back… of a… of a… dragon…?"

"Aye," Vorstag calmly answered, trying to ease Argis' irritation by acting like it was no big deal, "When the mood strikes her. Come on, we have a building to search, remember? We're looking for a one-eared Altmer?"

"Search," Argis repeated. A moment later and his features and stance relaxed, the normal act much easier to digest than the thought of riding a dragon. "Aye, we're searching for that bandit. An Altmer. I remember. Lady Gerhild wishes to question him. We'll find him, Vorstag, you and I, and then Lady Gerhild will be pleased with us. Might even give us a sizable bonus. Told you you'd like the life of a sellsword." He slapped the other smartly on the back of his shoulder.

Not quite right, Vorstag thought to himself a little sadly, but it was close enough. It might have been better to leave Argis behind, have him go with the boys to wait with the Companions, at least from a mental health standpoint. But if Norilar was as tricky and slippery as he'd proven in the past, they were gonna need Argis' sword arm before this was over, Vorstag was sure of it! He opened the door and crept inside, as quietly as possible, Argis on his heels.

It took them nearly until morning, the two men going slowly and carefully, checking every closet for false backs, every rug for hidden trap doors, every nook and cranny to make sure they didn't miss a thing. Norilar was here, Vorstag was sure of it. But he had managed somehow to hide from Gerhild's Shout. He had no idea how such a feat could be accomplished, but it had been accomplished, and he for one was not going to be responsible for letting Norilar get away.

Finally, however, he had to admit it; Norilar was not in the main embassy building. No one was. No one had been since the Thalmor vacated it before the end of the Civil War. There was no sign of occupation, no sign of a Black Sacrament being performed, not even any sign of skeevers.

"I suppose that's it," he sighed, looking around the last room. "He's not here."

"Which means he's in the other building," Argis concluded.

"Aye," Vorstag felt that tingling of foreboding creep up his spine once more. Norilar had to be in the solar, the building Gerhild and Aventus were to search, but that building was smaller. The two of them should have searched it far quicker than he and Argis searched the main embassy. Yet there had been no cry of alarm, no call that they had found their prey, no Shouts or the ringing of struck steel or the screams of wounded men or the crashing of furniture. Aventus and Gerhild were as silent and apparently as fruitless as he and Argis. "Aye, that's what worries me. Let's hurry! I don't like the looks of this."

The two big Nords, armor rattling and weapons drawn, tramped down the stairs and across the back courtyard to the solar. What they found when they opened the door only served to confirm the dread drowning Vorstag's heart.


	18. Norilar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had a little trouble naming this chapter, for obvious reasons.  
> Hang in there, everyone. Just two more chapters after this one (19 & 20).

Gerhild opened the door, slowly, carefully, while Aventus pressed a pair of oiled rags over the hinges. Their caution paid off, the creaking of the rusty metal muffled to near silence, even in the empty and echoing rooms. He gave her a grim smile when she looked to him, satisfied that they had gained entry without alerting anyone within. She returned the smile, pressed a finger to her lips—a needless warning to remain silent—and drew her shoulders back.

_"Laas Yah Nir."_

Aventus' eyes grew wide, never having been close enough to hear that particular Shout before. Nor close enough to see the way her eyes glowed a soft blue, much lighter in color, much like those of a Draugr. He shuddered after her head pivoted away from him, not wanting her to see how much he'd been affected by the eery sight. By Sithis, but that was strange!

Gerhild swung her head back and forth, back and forth, her efforts—her Shout—continuing to be frustrated. Something was wrong; something was very, very wrong. But that should not be surprising wherever Norilar was concerned. She had learned it was always best to use caution when dealing with Norilar, to assume the worst ahead of time and try to prepare for every eventuality. Yet so far, there had been no sign of the former Thalmor. Having determined that they were alone in the first room, she stepped into the solar, Aventus following and closing the door behind them.

"What was that? Some kind of Shout?"

"The one for detecting life again," she confirmed, her voice barely above the sighing of the wind. "But there's no sign of anyone being here. Is the ritual being performed, right now, at this moment?" she asked. She hadn't ventured too far into the building, wanting to allow her eyes time to adjust to the darkness. Outside there was plenty of moonlight thanks to a cloudless sky, but inside the place was pitch black. Every window had been shuttered and blocked from the inside and the outside; not a crack of light penetrated. She could conjure a light, she supposed, but if Norilar was somehow nearby despite not showing up when she Shouted, she didn't want him to see them coming. So she left them in the dark, nearly blind, relying on their other senses.

"Aye," Aventus breathed, stopping when he bumped into her back. He lightly put his hand on her shoulder and stepped around her to move further into the room, "We're close, but it's… confusing. I can feel him, feel the ritual, but it's…" He took a few more steps, trying to distance himself from her, trying to triangulate on the petitioner's position. He walked by feel and by memory, trying to recall the layout of the room, how many paces he had before he hit a wall or a piece of furniture…

Somewhere in the darkness there was a gentle click, followed quickly by a forceful hiss as of steam escaping a broken Automaton, and Gerhild felt a curse drop from her lips. "Aventus!" she cried, all pretense at stealth being tossed aside. "Run!"

Her words became strangled, garbled, her breath choking in her lungs. Quickly her mind evaluated the situation. The click they heard had been a pressure plate in the floor. Aventus must have stepped on it, unseen thanks to the blocked windows. The hissing noise was gas, leaking out everywhere, a powerful and choking gas that was making her head feel light after only a few breaths. She knew they wouldn't have much time. One hand was held aloft, casting a healing spell, trying to counter the effects of the gas while she staggered back to the door. If she could reach it in time…

If she could yank it open and allow fresh air to enter…

If the healing spell would work just a little longer…

Her fingertips found the door, but her choking and gasping lungs made her whole body spasm, dropping her to her knees before she could find the latch. She fumbled, fingers shaking and searching, lungs burning and eyes watering so badly she couldn't have seen even if there was enough light. Just as she felt the cold metal of the latch, something strange and unnerving happened to her.

It was almost like falling asleep, only her body went to sleep while her mind stayed wide awake. Her limbs folded like sackcloth, dropping her body to the floor, the latch slipping out of her inert fingers. She found herself lying face up, her knees bent beneath her, her back arched over her heels. Her body continued trying to breathe on its own despite the choking gas, giving little ticks and twitches completely involuntary to her will. She could feel the strain of muscles being stretched too far, a knee on the edge of popping, a corner of her armor digging into her shoulder blade. Yet she was powerless, unable to move, unable to Shout or even cast a spell. Through eyes that stared straight ahead, she saw a shadow shift into view right on the edge of her vision.

A shadow that shuffled close, face hidden behind a veil.

It leaned over her and grabbed her beneath the arms, lifting her partway up, just far enough to start dragging her across the dusty floor. Her last thought, before the gas made her lose consciousness, was that Norilar was being sloppy, leaving a trail behind him for the others to follow.

* * *

"…so hard to tell. I suppose it doesn't truly matter—you'll be dead soon enough—but I would like for you to see how it will happen. I would like for you to know ahead of time that your death is coming."

A fist took hold of the braids in her hair, yanking her face upwards.

"That's the trouble with a paralysis spell; one can never tell when it wears off."

Stuhn, she prayed, give me strength! There before her glazed eyes was Norilar. Oh, he was a little worse for wear, his clothing ragged and those of a peasant rather than a high ranking Thalmor. His hair was unkempt beneath his cowl, which was pulled up to hide his missing ear. His breath was putrid, even worse than his body odor. And the only weapon he carried was the dagger at his belt, an old and rusty cheap piece of iron. He pulled it out, held it before her eyes, the torchlight unable to penetrate the grime to shine off the metal. "This should do the trick," he grinned, dropping the dagger out of her sight. The next moment she felt it, a long and jagged slice, the dull blade causing plenty of pain.

"Awake now, Dragonborn?" he smiled sickly, yellow teeth caked with plaque and bits of food. "Oh, yes, my pet, I now know who you are. I know exactly who you are! Dragonborn. Gerhild North-Wind. Daughter of Maeganna Battle-Maiden and Ulgaarth North-Wind. I know you were born in Cyrodiil. I know you escaped Helgen when that supposed dragon business started. I know you won the Civil War for your patron, Ulfric. And I know you married that mercenary you ran around with so much, Vorstag of Markarth."

Sellsword, she thought irrelevantly to herself, he prefers the term sellsword.

"I admit, you laid down some convincing false trails. Hildegarde the Resolute was one of them that had me chasing ghosts for months! I don't mind admitting it, since you won't be around long enough to gloat over my minimal failures, not when faced with your colossal failure."

He let go and her head dropped without any will to hold it up. Her vision filled with her own body, kneeling on the dungeon floor, arms spread wide to be shackled to the wall, her armor gone, her leggings and sleeveless tunic ripped. There was the gash he had just made, long and shallow down the top of her thigh, oozing blood that soaked into her leggings. The thing that upset her the most, however, was the fact that he had removed her Amulet of Stendarr—or Stuhn, as she preferred to call him.

"And it does gall me to think that I had your lover, Vorstag, under my control for months, and never knew how much he meant to you. Had I known you were going to come for him, I would have set a trap for you at Northwatch Keep. But that doesn't matter now!"

She couldn't see him, couldn't so much as move her eyes, but she could still hear, she could still determine where he was in the room in relation to her. His steps faded, making her think he was walking away, giving her a reprieve, however brief. She tried to think of a way out of this, think of something she could do or use to her advantage, but there was nothing. Unless he lifted the paralysis spell, she could not Shout, could not summon the will necessary to cast a spell of her own.

She couldn't even get up off her knees!

His steps returned, and she found herself hoping and praying he would keep talking. The more time he wasted talking to her and the more time he took killing her, the more time Vorstag and the others would have to find her and save her. And Vorstag would save her; nothing could prevent that.

"Here we are," he lifted her head by her braids again, twisting her neck until her face pointed upwards towards the ceiling. He loomed over her, easily filling her vision, making sure she saw he was to be the instrument of her death. His other hand came up beside his face, the grimy fingers with their dirty nails clutching a thin vial. "Know what this is? Would you like to take a guess?" He tilted the side of his head towards her, allowing her to peek inside the cowl and see the hole where an ear had once been. "Hmm? Could you repeat that? I didn't quite catch it." He pulled back and laughed maniacally.

He's mad, she thought to herself. He's completely mad. Yet he was able to function mentally, to plan this ambush and effectively trap her. Not that the revelation did her any good.

"It's poison, ha-ha," he stated happily, as if sharing a surprise. His fingers rattled the vial, the contents making a small noise as they sloshed around inside. The next moment his face grew serious, critical, as he stared at the small bottle. "A mild acid-like substance, with a little bit of hanging moss added in to damage your ability to use magic. I couldn't afford to get anything too potent. But this will do nicely. You see, this is how you will die." He unstoppered the vial with his teeth—carefully—and spit the cork somewhere off to the side. "I will pour this down your throat and into your body, and it will slowly, oh so very, very, very slowly, dissolve you from the inside out."

There was nothing she could do. He had her head tipped back already, resting on her shoulder. All he had to do was pinch her mouth open and tip the bottle. Which he did.

Pain.

Pain unending.

Pain burned down her throat, burned with a fire that couldn't be quenched, an acidic, flesh-eating fire that would slowly spread, downwards, outwards, through her body. It dripped past her throat. It oozed down her esophagus. It settled in her stomach and there it mixed, burbling and boiling, pitching and roiling. She could feel it, deep inside, the pain tearing through her nerves as they anticipated the destruction the slow moving poison would soon cause.

Yet she couldn't move.

Gerhild tried to lift her head, to blink her eyes, to do anything defiant! But the paralysis spell was still in effect, rendering her useless.

She was going to die.

"Still with me?" he asked, yanking her head around. "Of course you are. I wouldn't expect this to kill you for at least an hour. Three, if I'm lucky." He smiled, sickeningly, his eyes alight with an unholy glee, "Let's hurry things along a bit, shall we?"

A fist punched into the side of her ribs. She felt the pain from the blow, the grating of several ribs cracking beneath the force, the air getting knocked out of her. It was a strange sensation, her body breathless, struggling on its own to re-inflate her lungs. Norilar helped, not wanting her to suffocate, not wanting her to die quite yet; apparently he had more in store for her.

He leaned back, satisfied, once he had her breathing again. "Now, where was I? Oh!" he snapped his fingers, letting go of her head. Her face dropped, and outwardly she stared—inwardly she screamed in horror—as blood dripped from her lips. "That's right. It was my turn to gloat. You, my dear Gerhild, made a fatal error," he knelt down in front of her, mindful of the reddish drops, the whites of his eyes shining yellow and bloodshot. "You did. You got cocky, didn't you? You got cocky, didn't you?" he repeated over and over in a singsong voice, his finger waggling in a scolding manner where she could see, that ugly smile spreading across his face as the poison spread across her lungs and stomach. "After the war, no, before the war was over, the Thalmor left Skyrim. Ah, you must have been so proud of yourself, thinking the Aldmeri Dominion was fleeing before you. They…" he paused, a sudden change coming over him. His face fell into a childish fearfulness, his head tilting, his shoulders pulling back on himself as if he had been struck, "…We didn't," he corrected himself. He licked his lips, nodding, gaining more and more confidence from the self-editing of his memories, "No, we didn't flee. We didn't run. We retreated. Strategically. We left before you could destroy us. But we didn't run."

He looked back at her again, his face calming with his breaths. "You thought the Thalmor were all gone, and you grew lax, inattentive, sloppy. You allowed your identity to be known. By everyone. The whole of Skyrim learned that Gerhild North-Wind, Thane of Whiterun and Markarth, was the Dragonborn. You didn't realize I was still here, did you? You didn't stop to think, did you? You never suspected that I was still around, still hunting you, did you? Did you? Did you?!"

He stopped suddenly, not because of his rant, but because of another sound, a pounding sound, distant to Gerhild's ears but something he focused on. The smile returned, wide and gross and making her want to shiver with dread, if only she could have moved. "Ah, good, good, I was wondering when they would find us. No matter. They'll not get in that way; not until I'm ready for them. You see," he moved her face so she could see him, see his madness, see his glory, "I learned everything I could about you. And in doing so, I realized that I could never get close enough to you to kill you myself. So I performed the Black Sacrament, just like I did this time. Well, not quite exactly. Last time it was perfect, the bones, the heart, the flesh. This time I couldn't prepare the body the way I wanted to, but it served its purpose." He shifted to the side, allowing her to see further than her immediate surroundings.

She was in one of the cages in the dungeon, which she had supposed as the cages were the only areas that had those damnable shackles that forced you to kneel! She set aside her frustration over the involuntary submission and focused her attention beyond the opened door. There was the body of a young woman lying supine on the floor, limbs spreadeagled, naked. Multiple stab wounds had turned her chest to ground meat, probably from the performance of the ritual rather than the act of murdering the girl. Her golden hair, a near perfect match for Gerhild's own color, spread out around her body like a halo, the strands closest to her torso stained red with blood. Arranged around the corpse were several candles, and scattered like droplets of blood between a shallow bowl and the girl's chest, were petals from the nightshade plant.

It was the Black Sacrament.

So that was why Aventus had trouble determining where the rite was being performed; it had been beneath them the whole time.

"Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear. Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child…"

He dropped her head and began to dance, spinning around and clapping his hands as he chanted the stanzas, over and over and over. Gerhild stopped listening to him, straining her ears to hear the muffled sounds coming from the door leading upstairs. Vorstag was just beyond that wooden barrier, yet for some reason he couldn't penetrate it, he couldn't reach her, he couldn't rescue her. If willpower alone could be enough, she would have thrown off the paralysis spell, Shouted Norilar's ass into Oblivion, and burst through to her husband. But willpower was useless to her now.

So was Shouting.

"…in blood and fear!" he drew out the last word, coming to the end of his song and dance, posing in front of her before he realized she couldn't see him. He made an apologetic sound and reached for her head, cradling it gently between his hands. "Sorry about that, my pet. I forgot. How stupid of me. Please, forgive my inattentiveness. I've been a terrible host. How can I make it up to you? I know!" He took hold of her tunic and gave it a firm yank, ripping part of it off of her. Then he took the fabric and twisted it until he had a sort of thick rope. He wrapped it around her neck, not tight enough to choke her, but tight enough to hold her head up where she could see him. "There, that's better, isn't it?"

She couldn't answer—even if she could have spoken, she had no answer for him.

He pulled back, a furrow of confusion on his brows, his lips being licked over and over every time he hesitated, "I… I seem to have lost… my place again… Where was I…?" He pressed his hands against the sides of his head, apparently feeling some sort of headache. He turned around, spied the body, and his hands dropped, his shoulders relaxing. When he started speaking again, he spoke to the corpse as if he was speaking to Gerhild. "Right! The Dark Brotherhood. I figured they could succeed, if anyone could. But they didn't. Or they wouldn't. I think they tried, someone did, but it was a clumsy attempt, the poisoned mead, the fire, you and Vorstag had already left Whiterun. It was such a waste of effort, my pet. Such a waste." He sighed, his voice having grown sadder as he had continued to speak.

He spun back to look at Gerhild, and relief swept over his features. "Oh! There you are. I thought you were already dead," he thumbed over his shoulder at the corpse. "I'm so very glad you're not dead, not yet. There's still so much more I want to tell you. I want you to know. I want you to understand, before you die, that I was the one who killed you, and exactly how I did it. I need you to know." He looked lost and frightened again, scared and alone, licking his lips, "I need… someone… to know…"

His eyes looked deeply into hers, his mood changing yet again, "I realized the Dark Brotherhood wouldn't kill you. Curse them. So I sought out someone who could show me, tell me, how to kill you. I sought out Hermaeus Mora. Oh, ho, ho, but he was mad at you. And more than willing to help me kill you. To give me the knowledge on how to bring you to your knees," he glanced down at said knees, "Literally. And all he asked for in return was my soul after I died. Such a paltry price to pay, for such a high reward. Your death, my dear Dragonborn. And all it cost me was some imaginary, insubstantial thing I will never need. Oh, and some bits from a dragon."

Dragon, she wondered to herself, her mind growing fuzzy with pain, her lungs burning with each breath. Where was Vorstag? Why wasn't he here? How long did it take to bust down a fucking door?

"Yes, that part was a bit tricky. Dragons are rather difficult to kill," he leaned in close, pressing his forehead against hers as if sharing a private joke, "But of course you know that. Am I right?" He leaned back, giggling, and thankfully sparing her any more of his putrid breath. "I had just killed my dragon, and was bringing the bits back here, when I came across… when I came across… oh, what was her name? Doesn't matter," he dismissed it with another snap of his fingers. "She was the leader of the Dark Brotherhood. It seemed she was having some problems with insubordination within the ranks. We talked, chatted, shared our stories and our troubles, and decided we could help each other out. She would fulfill my contract—finally—if I led soldiers to her lair and killed the other members of her order so she could start afresh. A bit drastic if you ask me," he smiled that oily smile again, "But I'm not going to judge. Oh, I held up my end of the bargain," his eyes grew sad, disappointed, "But she failed. You lived, yet again. Unbelievable. It's as if you have a god protecting you or something."

Stuhn, she prayed, Stuhn, please protect me. Abandon not your champion. Rescue me. Release me from this spell and these chains so I might vanquish my enemies…

But no dropping shield could save her this time.

"Doesn't matter. And do you know why? Because I had a Daedra on my side. And his knowledge. And I knew, I knew if I performed the Sacrament again, that the surviving member of the Dark Brotherhood would have to come. And," he leered at her, "He's your friend, isn't he? The lady assassin told me that, too. The Listener! That's what she called him. The Listener is your friend, and he would know I was performing the Sacrament, especially if I did it here, in this place. And he would know you would want to kill me. He would bring you along. And he did. And we're here. And you will die!"

The pounding against the door had long since ceased, but there was no sign of Vorstag. He wouldn't abandon her. He couldn't. But where could he be? What was delaying him? And could she live long enough?

"Oh, I nearly forgot about the dragon. That's the best part, the knowledge that Hermaeus Mora gave me: that for all your power and all your Thu'ums and all your abilities, you had your favorites. You had certain habits, certain preferred methods you relied upon again and again. Your Shout for detecting nearby enemies, for instance," the abhorrent smile returned. "It took a bit of doing, not the least of which was killing the dragon, but in the end I succeeded quite nicely. I set up wards around this dungeon, protecting the ceiling and walls, using the parts I salvaged from the dragon to empower my spells. You cannot detect dragons with that Shout, and since this dungeon is protected by a dragon—or what's left of one—you could not see inside it. See me. I could stay hidden, I did stay hidden, until you entered the solar upstairs. Until you triggered the gas. Until you walked into my trap."

If Gerhild could have blushed from embarrassment, she would have.

"I wasn't sure if it was Vorstag who was with you, but whoever it was I left him upstairs. I wanted to make sure we had time enough for you to die. I've blocked the doors leading back upstairs, both of them, barricaded them with whatever bones I had leftover, furniture, bookshelves, extra chains. In case you didn't notice, they have already tried both doors, those others who came with you. They've tried and failed to find entrance; they've given up and are waiting for me to let them in. It's almost time for you to die, knowing that help was so close and yet just beyond your grasp. Or you beyond theirs. And then," his voice grew small, distant, as if he was talking in his sleep, "And then, after you're dead, I'll let them in, I'll let them in to bear witness to what I have done, that I have succeeded, that I have indeed killed you. And they will kill me, and we all will be at peace."

Stuhn, she prayed, feeling the poison spreading out from her esophagus and into her lungs, feeling it break through the wall of her stomach and ooze into her guts. Stuhn… Stuhn… Stuhn…

* * *

"Where is Gerhild!"

Vorstag no longer tried to be gentle with Aventus, slapping the younger man so hard he reddened his skin. He and Argis had reached the solar and yanked open the main doors, only to find the assassin lying inert on the floor. And very much alone. They had choked on the leftover gas themselves, but as the door remained opened, it was a simple matter to grab Aventus by the arms and drag him outside to fresher air. Vorstag had propped him up against a snowberry bush and tried his best to revive him. When nothing worked, he resorted to brute force.

"Take it easy," Argis grabbed his wrist and pulled it away. "He's coming around. Just give him a few minutes."

"We may not have a few minutes!" Vorstag growled. "She may not have a few minutes!"

"What do you mean?" Argis blinked at him.

Vorstag squeezed his eyes shut; this was no time for Argis to have one of his spells. Aventus had been gassed, Gerhild taken, and Norilar was undoubtedly the culprit. But there was no sign of either of them!

Something moanful and unintelligent came out of the body before him. Vorstag opened his eyes in time to see Aventus try to open his eyes. "…Hnnnghhhmmm…"

"No one's making any sense this morning," grumbled Argis.

Vorstag ignored him. "Aventus. Aventus! Wake up, man. Wake up and tell us what happened. Where's Gerhild? Did Norilar take her?"

Aventus blinked at him blearily, "…wha…?"

Another smart slap rang through the courtyard.

"Hey!" the younger Nord brought up his hands, trying to protect his face, falling over into the never-melting snow. "What are you doing? We're on the same side, remember?"

"Aye, I remember," Vorstag growled, "But do you remember? Specifically, do you remember what happened?"

"Um, ah, sure," Aventus pushed himself up by his hands, lifting his face from the small snowdrift. He spat a mixture of snow and dirt out of his mouth. "We were searching the embassy for Norilar. Um, Gerhild and I entered the solar, but it was dark. She Shouted and said there was no one inside. I started, um, I started walking forwards, trying to figure out where the Sacrament was being performed, I could feel it was close, but…" Suddenly his eyes flew wide. "Fuck! It was me. My fault. I stepped on something, and gas started flooding the room, and Gerhild shouted, normally I mean, but I couldn't breathe. Then…" he blinked around them, "Then I was here. With you two and…" he finished looking around, "Where's Gerhild?"

"That's what we want to know." Vorstag was hard pressed to keep his temper in check. It was one thing when he and Gerhild were in trouble together; they knew each other's strengths and weaknesses, how to work as a team to get out of any situation. But when she was in trouble, and he had no idea where she was, what was happening to her, did she have anyone to watch her back…

Like when she battled Miraak.

Or when she battled Alduin.

"Stuhn's Shield," he swore, pushing away the fear, venting his anger and anxiety in physical movement by standing and walking a few paces away. When this was over, he was never letting her out of his sight again. Ever! Aye, he knew he had made that vow to himself time and time again, but he wouldn't let anything stand in his way this time. As soon as he found her, he was going to wrap his arms around her and never let her go. "We found you alone in the solar. No sign of Gerhild. Any idea what happened to her?"

Aventus shook his head. "I didn't see. Passed out before she did, I think. I was further into the room."

Vorstag was silent, trying to think things through.

Aventus was silent, trying not to feel guilty.

Argis was not silent, however. Something was upsetting Vorstag, and his Thane was missing. Someone had to do something. "Let's go," he suggested, well, commanded more than suggested, his steps heading back to the solar and the open door.

"What?" Aventus struggled to his feet, voicing the question that was also ringing through Vorstag's head.

"The last place Lady Gerhild was seen is in the solar. So we'll start looking there."

"But… the gas…"

"Should have cleared out by now." Argis didn't even pause, striding through the doorway and into the building. He didn't stop until he had reached the middle of the room, inadvertently stepping on the pressure plate. But all the gas had been used up the first time, and Norilar hadn't replenished the supply. Argis stood in the room, turning slowly in a circle, sniffing the air as he did so. "Aye, I think it's gone. Hey, take a look at this."

"What?" This time Vorstag spoke, pushing past Aventus to see where Argis was pointing. The sun was about to rise, the predawn giving just enough light to see by. He looked past Argis finger and saw the floorboards, thick with dust, except for a long streak. "Something, or someone, was dragged through here."

"Let's follow it," Argis brilliantly suggested, and the other two brilliantly did not argue.

As they walked through the house, following the trail of smeared dust, Vorstag had one last worrying thought. "Think there are any more traps up ahead? Pressure plates? Trip wires?"

"Doubtful," Aventus replied. "The trail is steady, even. Whoever was dragging Gerhild didn't swerve to miss a trap, or pause to set one up."

"That's what's worrying me," Vorstag admitted. "It's too easy. Too simple. There should be something up there, in the darkness, ready to steal our souls."

Aventus stopped him with a hand on his chest. "Are you being serious? That would be a little much, don't you think?"

"You haven't gone adventuring with Gerhild as often as I have," he retorted, pushing away the hand and continuing onwards. "She has an uncanny ability to find the most dangerous, deadliest, poisonous, cursed places on the face of Nirn."

"The trail ends at the door down those stairs!" Argis called back to them. "Come on!" He stomped down the steps, his heavy footfalls echoing loud enough to penetrate the door, Vorstag was sure. Cursing, giving up on any element of surprise, he stormed down after Argis to crash through the door and rescue…

He plowed into his friend's back and bounced off, landing hard enough on the stairs to sprain his tailbone. Belatedly he remembered how Argis got the nickname, Bulwark. "What the fuck!"

"The door's locked or something," Argis grunted from in front of him. "Maybe it's stuck. I don't know. I can't move it."

"Let me try." Vorstag knew it was petty, but he needed to physically do something. Argis outweighed him by a good two stone, even after all the time he'd been sick. If Argis couldn't move something, it couldn't be moved.

The latch turned, so it wasn't locked. Yet he pushed to no avail. He shoved his shoulder against it with an equal lack of response. He stepped back and kicked the shit out of it. He pounded on the wood and shouted Gerhild's name.

The damn thing was jammed or barricaded or something from the other side.

"Vorstag!" Aventus managed to gain his attention. "I found another door…"

"Good! Where! Let's go…"

"…But it's also blocked or something; I tried." Aventus stepped back, wary of the look on Vorstag's face. "I'm sorry, Vorstag. I'm sorry."

He couldn't look at either of them, turning away. He pressed his forehead against the wood, spread his hands out over the surface, as if by sheer force of will he could melt into and through the simple wood standing between him and his love. He could hear, faintly, from somewhere beyond, a male voice singing some maddening little jingle.

"We could burn it down," suggested Argis.

"And risk burning down the house on top of us, and Gerhild," Aventus countered.

"How about chopping at it with our swords."

"It would take time, but I don't see any other option. They already know we're coming…"

"The cave," Vorstag answered, his voice flat. "We'll go outside, around the mountain, to that cave Gerhild pointed out earlier. Kill the troll. Come up that way."

"It'll take time," Aventus really didn't like the idea of fighting off a frost troll.

"So will chopping down the door. Come on." he started back up the stairs. "If Norilar doesn't hear any noise from us," he was sure it had been Norilar's voice he'd heard singing, "He might think we've left." He reached the top step and started at a jog for the front door. "He might let his guard down. We'll surprise him, coming up from the trapdoor." He fell into a sprint as soon as he reached the outside. The sun was full up, a new day dawning bright and cheery, but the beautiful vision was lost on Vorstag. He didn't wait to see if the others were following him, and truthfully he didn't care. He was going to reach Gerhild, and nothing—not barricaded doors nor frost trolls nor even a mad and sickly twisted Thalmor—was going to stand in his way.

* * *

It would be soon, she reasoned.

The noise from above had stopped long ago. Even Norilar had grown tired of hearing his own voice, his mad ranting dwindling away after he'd had his chance to gloat. He was ready, ready for Gerhild to die, ready for her friends to witness his triumph, but they had been so quiet for so long. He chewed his lip and paced round the dungeon, sometimes distracting himself by doing a little jig around the Sacrament lying on the floor. He stopped at one point, lifting his head as if he had heard something, but all Gerhild heard was the far off cry of some wild animal.

Sadly, it no longer mattered what had happened to Vorstag, where he was or what he was doing. It was too late. She could feel the poison melting her from the inside out, dissolving her, taking away her very core, her very essence. Soon, all that would be left was an empty shell, some skin and bits of bone, less than the corpse on the floor.

Stuhn, but it hurt! Her lungs were burning. Even paralyzed she could feel the organs struggling to pull in air. She imagined she could feel her bowels turning into goo, ready to spill out of her, the poison nearly finished with its work.

No, it wouldn't be much longer.

Was this truly how she would end? She? Gerhild North-Wind? She was the fucking Dragonborn! But for all her power, for all her strength, for all her resourcefulness, she was still hanging from her wrists kneeling in front of a fucking Thalmor and dying! She'd been outwitted by a madman, her Thu'um useless, her skills useless, her quick mind useless. Perhaps…

Perhaps… this was ever to be her ultimate fate. Perhaps, she had grown too accustomed to using her Dragonborn powers, relying on her Thu'um far too often, becoming predictable. Perhaps, she had used her Thu'um so much, she was now unable to live without it. Perhaps, she could no longer function as a normal person. Perhaps, the only option left to her was to die.

Bitter tears fell internally as her soul wept over this realization. She'd never see Hamming again, never see him grow into the fine young man she knew he would be. He, too, would lose his mother at a young age. He, too, would have to grow up with only his father to care for him. At least Vorstag would be whole, not a cripple as her father had been. And Hamming would have Argis and Maniel and Ralof and everyone else in Riverwood, and a stationary home where he could put down roots and make friends and live a wonderful life.

But, like her, he would not have his mother.

Now she felt regret. Now she wished she had taken a moment, paused and glanced over her shoulder one last time to see Hamming before leaving him with Farkas. His chubby, happy little face filled her mind's eye, his baby chuckle sounding like angels singing, even his drooling over everything making her feel warm and needed. Merciful Mara, she prayed, don't let him miss me.

And then she was ready to die.

Norilar was pacing again, rubbing at his missing ear, talking to the floor, mumbling something incoherent. He looked troubled, concerned, impatient perhaps. Suddenly he twirled and ran for the stairs, taking them two at a time, to reach one of the doors. He began tearing away the bits of odds and ends he had stacked in a heap before it. "Are you still there?" he called. "Please don't go. Please tell me you haven't gone. I was going to let you in. I promise. I'll let you in now. Just wait. Wait one moment. Please don't go. You have to see. You have to see that I succeeded!"

He gave up after a few minutes, panting, the pile barely moved. He looked down over the railing at Gerhild, at her motionless body, at her stationary eyes. "Are you dead?" he whispered. "Has it happened? I… I… I wanted to watch."

As if in a trance, Norilar stood and started back down the stairs towards her, his hands gripping the railing. He had to let go at the bottom to cross the room to reach her. He stumbled over the corpse not having seen it, his eyes only for Gerhild. He searched for any sign that she was still living, any twitch of a pulse at the vein in her neck, any timid lifting of her chest as she breathed.

She was so still.

"No," he whispered, his lips barely moving, "I wanted to watch. I needed to watch. That was the plan. You were supposed to be dying when I let them in. They would get here just in time to see the light leave your eyes. Then they would kill me right after. You weren't supposed to die without me!" His voice had risen in volume towards the end until he as shouting, spittle flying from his lips to land on her face. He leaned back, one hand outstretched, and cast a spell at her.

She blinked, a purely voluntary, willful, deliberate act on her part. Then she gasped, she gasped as her lungs returned to her control, she rattled the shackles as her arms began to move, she weakly kicked out her feet as her legs struggled to lift the strain off her knees.

She could move! By the Nine, she could move. He had lifted the paralysis spell, all so that he could prove to himself she was alive. But it didn't do her any good. She tried, it was the first thing she had tried, fighting to draw air into lungs past a ruined throat, to Shout. But hardly any articulate sound was able to slip past her lips. She had lost her Voice. In a vain effort to do one last defiant act, she flopped a booted foot towards Norilar's groin.

Norilar gave a short bark, somewhere between surprise and pain, and cupped himself. It had been a weak blow, hardly grazed his, erm, sweetmeats, but it had caught him off guard. Incongruously, relief swept through him as he backed away to keep out of reach of the frail thrashing of her legs. "You are still alive. Good, good, my pet. Good." He sighed, stepping back towards the opening of the cell. He leaned against the bars, trying to keep her in sight as he glanced up at the doors. "If only I knew they were still there, or where they had gone, or when they'd be back. I was going let them in, honest; all they had to do was wait."

"We're done waiting."

"Wha…?" Norilar never got to finish his question. The hilt of Vorstag's dragonbone sword slammed into the back of his skull, felling him to the cold floor.

"Tie him up," Vorstag commanded, barely holding his bloodlust in check. Oh, how badly he wanted to kill the motherfucker, but he knew, "Gerhild will want to kill him herself."

"Aye," Argis agreed, kneeling over the unconscious Altmer and tying his wrists behind his back.

"Vorstag," Aventus called softly, his voice sad, "In here. It's Gerhild."

Vorstag turned, chagrined. Truthfully, after all the pounding at the door upstairs, and battling the frost troll to reach the trapdoor, it wasn't that he had forgotten about his wife, but he wanted to make sure that Norilar was taken care of first. Gerhild would be alright. She would always be alright. She had Stuhn watching over her. She was the Last Dragonborn. She was…

He saw her, on the back wall of the cell, hanging from her wrists. She was barely moving, and refusing to answer Aventus' questions. After he picked the locks she fell to the floor in a crumpled little pile of flesh and torn clothing and blood.

Vorstag didn't remember coming up to her, falling to his knees beside her, wrapping her suddenly mortal form in his massive arms. He only knew he was looking into the face of the woman he loved, staring into depthless dark blue eyes like the infinity of space, tracing the round cheekbones and spunky dimple and bow shaped lips.

"Gerhild," he breathed, unaware of the other two men; his whole world was in his arms, "Gerhild, can you hear me? Can you heal yourself? What did he do to you?"

She blinked up at the face above her, her eyes following the swirling tattoo on the side of his stubbled cheek. Stuhn's Shield, how she loved this man! He'd come for her, as she knew he would; if only it had been in time.

"Gerhild, speak to me, please, say something."

"…can't…" she croaked, barely intelligible.

"What?"

Her fingers shook as she brought them to her throat. "…poison… burned… no Voice…" he could hear the capital letter in the word, and knew she meant her Thu'um, "…dying…"

Like Oblivion was Vorstag going to give up on her now! "Heal yourself. You don't need to speak to cast a spell, Gerhild. You've done it dozens of times. You've healed an inn full of dying Nords, for the love of Mara! Heal yourself!"

He took her hand, lifted it up as she had often done, and willed it to fill with magic.

She shook her head weakly, wobbling in the crook of his other arm. "…poison… blocking… magic… can't… spells…" She didn't have to complete the sentence, he was so in tune with her thoughts, her feelings, her desires. He knew she was saying there had been something in the poison that was blocking her ability to use magic, preventing her from healing herself.

Damn Norilar. Damn him again and damn him thrice!

"Aventus!" he grasped at another straw. "You use magic, right? Cast a healing spell. Quickly, man!"

Aventus couldn't look him in the eye. "I'm sorry, Vorstag. I'm an assassin. I kill people, not heal them. The only spells I know are destructive ones."

Vorstag felt his heart nearly stop at those words. He looked back down at Gerhild, at the glaze beginning to shadow her eyes, at the slackness of her lips, at the furrows of pain in her brow.

"Here's a healing potion; this should work," Argis quietly passed the potion over, tapping Vorstag's shoulder with it. Mechanically, like a soulless Automaton, he dropped her hand and took the bottle, but made no effort to use it.

"Can't," he felt bitter tears welling up behind his eyes.

"What do you mean, you can't," Argis pressed. "She's dying. The potion will heal her. Give it to her."

"Potions leave scars," he said quietly, not sure if Argis would understand, and not caring right then, explaining more for her benefit, to make sure they both knew exactly what was at stake. "Magic won't leave scars, but she can't perform magic right now. And she may not have the time to wait until the poison wears off."

"What's so wrong with having scars? Better than dying, isn't it?"

Vorstag could not take his eyes off of her face. "Her throat will be scarred. She'll lose her Voice, her Thu'um. Permanently."

The other two were silent for a moment, until Aventus dropped a rather soft sounding, "Fuck."

Vorstag went back to ignoring them again, his whole being focused on her. "Gerhild, my love, I can't… I don't know what to do… losing your Voice… it would destroy you… but you're dying anyway…"

She nodded, lifting her hand again to wrap around his wrapped around the healing potion. "I'm… ready… it's time… let… the Dragon… born… die…"

He knew what she meant, understood her motives. She had said it, only a few short hours before: she would find no peace until she was cold and dead in her grave.

The tears began to fall, fall from his soft, gentle, puppy-dog brown eyes. He bent his neck over her, pressing his lips to hers, trying to hold on to this moment. But time would not stop its relentless march toward the future, no matter how desperately he might wish. He pulled back, staring into those dark blue orbs, holding her gaze steady, as the bottle tipped and the contents spilled out.


	19. Dine in Sovngarde

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know what you're thinking. You know how I write. But, think about it: how else could this story have ended?

Vorstag stood in the courtyard, looking out over the mountain slopes bathed in afternoon sunlight. The tears were long gone, dried up and set aside for another time. At his feet were two very separate, very different bundles. One was the body of a woman, dressed in dragonscale armor, a dragonbone war axe at her hip, the whole wrapped tightly within an old drape they'd found. The other was the body of an Altmer, former Thalmor, bound and gagged and hooded.

Vorstag gave him a harsh nudge with his boot, just to make sure Norilar was still alive. He was rewarded with a pained grunt.

"You sure you wanna split up like this?" Argis asked, his brow furrowed with concern.

"Aye, Argis," Vorstag sighed heavily. The argument had been long, heated, but in the end they had all reached a consensus. "We each have our jobs to do. You need to go to Whiterun, to the Companions in Jorrvaskr, and give them that note." He pointed to the missive in the other man's hand. "You can do that, right? You can remember to go to Whiterun? The address is printed on the outside of the envelope. Just follow it, Argis. Go to Whiterun. Give that to the Harbinger. He'll want to know."

"Aye, but…" Argis voice trailed off, his lips twitching as he tried to remember something, something else, something quite different. "But… what about… Lady Gerhild?"

Stuhn's Shield, he swore to himself, what had he done? It took every ounce of willpower not to look down at the wrapped up body when he answered, "She's being taken care of, don't worry about it. Just worry about your part. Get to Whiterun." He decided to try another tactic, something that would distract the Nord from his stubbornness. "That's where Manny is, remember? You want to see Manny again, don't you?"

Argis nodded.

"He's in Whiterun, with the Companions. Go there and find him, alright?"

"Oh, aye, Vorstag, I'll go find Manny. Farewell, then."

Argis the Bulwark turned his back and started down the road, his pack slung over one shoulder, a tune whistling through his teeth.

"I'll make sure he takes a wagon from Solitude," Aventus said softly. He, too, looked troubled about what had happened during the last twenty-four hours. "He'll reach Whiterun safely; don't fear. And I'll be back with the horses before nightfall."

Vorstag nodded. "Good. The sooner we're done with him," he kicked Norilar again, "The sooner I can…" he looked down at the other body. "By the Nine, but I don't think I can…"

Aventus had to clear his throat before he could speak. "It's too late to change our plans now. Besides, this was what she wanted. And no one could ever argue with the Dragonborn…" That damnable lump returned, strangling the last word. He coughed again, turning away, "Excuse me, I need to catch up with Argis. See you in a few hours."

Vorstag remained standing, watching the younger man catch up with the older, the two of them disappearing from sight around a bend in the road.

Alone with his thoughts, he fell into a brown study, not hard to do while standing guard over a corpse. Stuhn's Shield, but what he wouldn't give to turn back time, to replay last night and this morning, to have gone with Gerhild instead of Argis, to have checked on her a little sooner, to have thought of the troll cave right away…

Earlier, when Gerhild lay dying in his arms, he had wanted each moment to last an eternity, but time had flown past in the blink of an eye. Now, when he had nothing to do but wait, time was dragging its feet torturously slow.

There was a muffled sort of moaning from the other body. Vorstag gave it a vicious kick, perhaps breaking a rib or two with the pointed toe of his dragonplate boot. The Altmer grew silent.

Either Aventus made better time than anticipated, or Vorstag had managed to lose track of a few hours. It didn't matter, as Aventus came trotting up the road, two horses in tow. Vorstag didn't speak, not that there were any words to speak. He gingerly lifted the wrapped body up, cradling it in his arms as he would a sleeping child, and carried it to one of the horses. He draped it over the saddle, balancing it carefully, securing it tightly, pausing a moment when he was done to make sure of his work. Satisfied, he walked over to the other body and picked it up like one would carry a sack of potatoes.

Norilar grunted a protest, trying to wiggle himself free, but Vorstag would have none of it. He dumped the Altmer across the front of the other horse's saddle, mounted behind him, and turned to Aventus. "Let's get going."

"You sure about this part, Vorstag?" Aventus pressed. "Have you ever killed a man before? Not in the heat of battle, but in cold blood?"

Vorstag thought about it, remembering what he had Gerhild had tried to do to Ulfric. "Not exactly, but this isn't murder. This is the just and deserving execution of a criminal, an enemy of the state." He slapped the rump of the Altmer, eliciting another groan.

"You sure you wanna go back there?" Aventus continued.

Vorstag looked to the northwest, to the farthest corner of Skyrim. "Aye."

* * *

It took more than a night and a day of hard riding, Vorstag pushing the horses as fast as they could go without upsetting the corpse. He didn't care what shape Norilar was in when they reached their destination—only that he reached it alive. Which he did.

Aventus dismounted in the courtyard first, looking around at the eerily silent ruins of Northwatch Keep. "This place gives me the creeps," he hummed, then almost laughed at himself, "Which is hard to do to a member of the Dark Brotherhood."

Vorstag nodded agreement. Right then he found himself wishing Gerhild was there beside them, Shouting and looking with that other ability of hers to see if there were occupants inside, bandits, skeevers, or whatever. But with an ebony-sharp pang of grief he realized that would never happen again. He set his features and dismounted, dragging Norilar with him to land on the ground in a heap.

Stuhn's Shield, but the last time he'd been here, he hadn't seen the place. Going in they had made him wear a hood, and coming out he'd been blind. He could honestly say he had never seen Northwatch Keep, not this close up, not in this detail. He almost reconsidered his plans.

"So, where're you gonna do this?"

"Inside," Vorstag answered, pushing away his anxiety. He wasn't going to be buried beneath a mountain, he told himself. He was going inside, aye, and deep inside, to the darkest depths of the Oblivion-cursed dungeon, but he was coming back out again. "See to the horses. I don't know how long I'll be."

Aventus sighed, knowing he couldn't talk Vorstag out of this. "I'll be here."

Vorstag barely heard him. He bent over, took a firm grip on Norilar, and stood up, hefting him over one shoulder. Then he started for the main doors, still ajar after the last time.

It was different. It was so very different, he could almost tell himself he wasn't at Northwatch Keep, that he was in some other ruin, walking down different corridors, passing rooms that served different purposes. Then he'd spy the dead and decaying body of some fallen Thalmor agent or warrior, reminding him that Gerhild had once walked these halls, vengeance sweeping before her, destruction in her wake.

He would never see that again.

Deeper he journeyed into the Keep, deeper and darker and colder and mustier. He remembered the smell keenly, the cold and damp decay of old blood and excrement and other filth. He stopped to light a torch at one point, needing it to see, any source of daylight long since left behind.

He continued to stalk deeper into the building, lower into the ground, feeling the weight of the stone and earth heaping above his head. But he wouldn't stop, he wouldn't let himself acknowledge his fears. He had to do this. He alone could do this. For Gerhild's sake. And he was not about to allow himself to fail her.

At long last they reached their destination. Vorstag kicked open a door that had been hanging off of one hinge, sending it crashing to the ground. He strode into the torture chamber as if he owned the place…

No, he had to stop. He had to pause and look around. How could he not? It almost paralyzed him, seeing this room again, the table—Stuhn's Shield, the torment he had endured while strapped to that surface! The rack—where the Assistant Interrogator had blinded him under Norilar's careful supervision. The shackles—he remembered hanging from them that first day, forcing himself to stand, breaking his own wrists, if only to defy the Thalmor.

Norilar, hanging over his shoulder, gave a small twitch.

"Aye, I suppose you'd like to see where we are, wouldn't you?" Vorstag asked. He dropped Norilar to the floor and kicked him into the small alcove where the shackles hung. Then he walked over to the rack where he found an empty sconce for the torch. Next he found a lantern in the rubble and lit it, giving them a little more light. Setting the lantern on the table, he stoically walked back to Norilar, who had managed to wiggle around to a position leaning against the wall. Vorstag reached down and yanked the hood off his head, probably pulling a few hairs out for good measure.

Norilar blinked, the muted light too bright for eyes that had been hidden for so long. He cringed backwards as much as he could, his voice high-pitched and whining, fearful, lost, unsure. "Where are we? Why are we here? What do you want?"

"Don't you recognize this place?" Vorstag taunted him. "We spent so much time here, you and I, together."

"I… I don't… know…" he looked up at the Nord, "Where's Sorcal?"

Vorstag remembered now—how many little things he had made himself forget from his imprisonment here—Sorcal had been the name of his assistant. He looked over his shoulder, at a half-decayed body lying slouched in the corner where Gerhild had left it, the throat cut cleanly through to the spine. "Right over there, I believe."

Norilar followed his gesture, and saw the body. A change came over him, and he was the Head Interrogator once more. "Ah, Sorcal, I think it's time we started. Bring in the prisoner, the Nord legionnaire who was in Helgen during the supposed dragon attack."

Vorstag looked over his shoulder again, but the body didn't move. He shrugged, deciding Norilar was lost in his madness, and left him to it. He grabbed his wrists, untied him, and chained him to the shackles in the wall.

"Hasn't he broken yet? No matter. He will soon. They all do. And then he'll tell me exactly what I want to… no, no, no, it can't be, you're dead!"

_Hadvar walked up to stand just behind Vorstag. "Aye, I'm dead. Killed by your hand squeezing my heart to a stop. Over there on that very table. Remember?"_

Norilar wanted to laugh, the hysteria building up inside him like a volcano. He watched, disbelieving his eyes, as Vorstag stood and walked right through the legionnaire.

"Why are you here?" he shouted, demanded. "What do you want from me?"

"Only your death," Vorstag answered, calming sorting through a stack of loose rubble.

_"What he said," Hadvar agreed, grinning at him._

"Sorcal!" Norilar screamed. "Sorcal. Come here at once. Ah," he calmed down, seeing Sorcal come up on the other side of Hadvar, "There you are. Good man. I demand you return this Nord to his cell immediately. I do not wish to interrogate him at this time."

_Sorcal crossed his arms over his chest. "I don't think so, sir," he added an extra amount of venom to that last word._

"Wh… wh… wha… what?" Norilar stuttered.

Vorstag knelt just beyond his reach with an armful of large stones. "Who are you talking to?"

"My assistant, now be still!" he shouted at Vorstag. Then he lifted his face to focus somewhere over Vorstag's shoulder and demanded, "What do you mean? What are you doing?"

"I'm interring you," Vorstag answered, not sure if Norilar understood, or if he was too far gone into his mad fantasy. He went back for another armload of stones. He knew he could do a better job, a more permanent job, if he had mortar, but this would do well enough. Judging by the sounds of Norilar's babbling, he was now the one being tormented by ghosts from his past, he was now the one being tortured, he was now the one doomed.

_"These are your just desserts," Sorcal said to him. "You killed us, every one of us." More faces joined Hadvar and Sorcal, more ghosts, men and women, young and old, guilty and innocent. Norilar quickly lost count._

"But I never killed you!" he shouted at Sorcal.

"That's true," Vorstag agreed. He was sweating by this time, his muscles straining with his efforts, his armor and tunic set aside for the time being. He had placed the heaviest stones at the bottom, but the task had not gotten easier. It had taken a lot of strength to move those first stones, and even though he was now lifting far lighter stones, his muscles were already feeling fatigued. At least he was halfway done, the makeshift wall waist high and still growing. "I'm alive. But you did kill others. So many others."

"I see them…" Norilar moaned, then giggled, drooling from the corner of his mouth, "Quite an accomplishment."

Vorstag swallowed back the bile rising in his throat and went for some more stones.

_"You killed me," Sorcal pressed, "With your cowardice. You saw that ebony warrior and you ran. You ran like a child. Like a weakling. Like the gutless skeever you are. You left me!" he shouted, drifting closer, coming through the wall to stand inside with Norilar. "I died because of you. Like a fool I died for you! And you betrayed me, betrayed my honor, betrayed my efforts. You killed me!"_

The other ghosts joined Sorcal, not wishing to be left outside as Vorstag put the final stone in place. A sound tore it's way out of Norilar's throat, low and moanful, a sound that should not be made by a living creature. A supernatural sound like the roar of a dragon, but one full of despair and death and unending anguish.

Vorstag paused a moment, the last stone in his hands. He stood up on tiptoe to peek through the hole, to take one last look at Norilar. He was gone. Physically he was still alive, his limbs twitching occasionally, his lips mouthing words only he could hear, his eyes glazed and focused on horrors beyond imagining. But Norilar himself was gone. Without another thought, Vorstag settled the last stone in place, leaving the former Thalmor in eternal darkness.

Vorstag walked over to where his tunic lay and put it back on. He was too sweaty to replace his armor, so he carried the dragonplate cuirass and helmet as he left Northwatch Keep for the final time.

Outside in the courtyard he paused and blinked at the soft morning light. So much time had passed, and yet the time had been so full of events, he felt there hadn't been enough time for it all. Leaving the philosophical conundrum for better men, he walked over to where Aventus had set up a small camp.

"Is it done?"

"Aye," grunted Vorstag as he sat down on a bedroll. "I'm going to get some rest, then I'll leave for Whiterun."

Aventus scuffed his toe in a damp snowdrift, glancing at Vorstag out of the corner of his eye. "Are you sure you wouldn't want company…?"

"You have your own matters to attend to," Vorstag waved him off as he laid down, "Rebuilding your Brotherhood and all that. This one, this last trip, I'll do alone. I want to do it alone. It's gonna be hard enough…" He closed his eyes, not wanting to think about what would happen when he reached Whiterun.

Aventus looked at the exhausted Nord, thinking it must be sheer stubbornness keeping the man going. "Aye. Get some rest. I'll keep watch until you wake. Then we'll part ways."

Vorstag grunted in the affirmative for an answer. A moment later, and gentle snores could be heard rumbling from Vorstag's chest.

* * *

The journey had been hard.

Not physically, not by any means. Vorstag had spent most of his time sitting on his ass, reins held loosely in his hands, as the horses pulled the cart down the road. Even the occasional stops he'd made to pack the body in snow were not taxing.

But mentally, he had no one to talk with, no one to distract him, and his thoughts went over and over, round and round those horrific events. He second-guessed and third-guessed and fourth-guessed his actions—all their actions. Not that it did any good. What was done, was done. Over. Finished.

All there was left to do, was to reach Whiterun.

He'd had to stick to the roads, deciding it would be more noble to for the Dragonborn to enter Whiterun in the back of a cart, rather than draped over the back end of a horse. It made the going slower, taking several weeks, but what did that matter. Argis would also have been traveling these same roads, going just as slowly on the back of a wagon as Vorstag on the back of a cart. And he had to give Argis time to reach Whiterun first, reach the Companions and deliver the news.

The Dragonborn was dead.

Apparently, Argis had been successful in his part of this whole mess. Not long after Fort Greymoor and a little ways before the Western Watchtower, the countryside began to change. People were lining the sides of the road. It started with a few Whiterun guards, their amor cleaned and polished, their fit bodies standing at attention. As Vorstag drew alongside them, they drew their swords and raised them in silent salute to the precious cargo on the back of the cart. That was hard to take, the simple gesture of love and respect for Gerhild, for her memory, for her legacy. He was hard pressed to keep the tears at bay by the time he reached the Watchtower.

Vilkas was there, and Farkas, the two men standing side by side in the middle of the road, waiting for him. Vorstag slowed the cart, acknowledging their presence, but he didn't want to stop. He had to get this over and done with before he did something embarrassing. Vilkas seemed to understand, falling into step beside the cart, one hand touching the side just in front of the wheels. Farkas came up on the other side, easily keeping pace.

"I take it Argis arrived safely with my message," Vorstag began with something easy.

"Last week," Vilkas answered. "He's up at Jorrvaskr with Maniel and Hamming."

He nodded. "Suppose I should have asked first, for permission to use the Skyforge as her funeral pyre. I know that's not its purpose, but she told me once that it had been used that way for the last Harbinger, Kodlak…"

"Don't worry about it," Vilkas answered, "We would be honored to host such an event." He glanced over his shoulder at the plain wooden coffin, something else Vorstag had shambled together, thinking it would not only look better but help keep the snow from melting too fast. "Is she…" he stopped, wanting to slap himself upside the back of his head. "I mean, of course she is, but…"

"You can't believe it," Vorstag sighed, pulling the horses to a stop. There were more people up ahead, the soldiers barely able to keep them off the road, all crammed together to catch a glimpse of something they could not believe. He didn't blame them. Or Vilkas. "You wanna take a look?" he offered.

"I… no, Vorstag… it would be rude…"

"Go ahead. I'd rather you do it now, than before we reach the city."

Vilkas hated himself, but he had to look. Gerhild had cheated death so many times, in so many ways, he simply could not believe she was gone. He walked to the back of the cart, Farkas coming up beside him, and together they lifted the top of the coffin.

The smell was even stronger than when they first approached. Vilkas reeled back, letting go of the lid to cover his mouth and nose, leaving Farkas to hold the thing by himself. "Sorry about that," Vorstag had seen their reactions, watching them from over his shoulder. "I've tried to keep her as best I could, packing with snow and all, but it's taken me a few weeks to get here, and I don't know anything about taking care of dead bodies. I'm afraid she's not very well, er, preserved."

"No, of course, you did what you could," Vilkas recovered, forcing himself to come closer and look again. The body inside was wrapped in what appeared to be an old drape. He shifted the fabric away from the head, finding the familiar and singular dragonscale helmet beneath. The face had not faired well, decay of death already setting in, yet Vilkas could no longer deny, "That is… was Gerhild."

"Aye," Farkas sighed, covering her up with the fabric and putting the lid back into place.

Vorstag waited until the coffin was sealed before he flicked the reins, starting the cart onward to Whiterun.

Vilkas had to jog to catch up. "You look tired, Vorstag. Why don't you let Farkas take the reins for a bit?"

"No, thank you," he shook his head. Stuhn's Shield, he was exhausted, but he couldn't take them up on their offer. "I want to finish this. I want to be the one who brings her home."

Vilkas' jaw clenched with the effort not to feel his pain. "I understand. Companions! Fall in!"

All the Companions came bursting from the crowd up ahead, jogging along the road until they reached the cart. Then they formed a protective circle around it, an honor guard, even as Whiterun soldiers continued their own silent salutes and the crowd stared with disbelieving curiosity. There were a few low moans that reached Vorstag's ears over the clopping of the horses' hooves and the grating of the cart's wheels. Low moans and gentle weeping and whispered laments.

How could this have happened, the crowd asked themselves. How could the Dragonborn have been killed. She was so young. So strong. By the Nine, she was the Dragonborn!

They reached the stables outside the city walls, and Vorstag at long last left his perch. His legs buckled beneath him, stiff and sore from sitting for so long. Farkas caught him, held him upright, afraid he might faint. For a moment, Vorstag feared the same. But he kept his feet and after a few deep breaths he slapped Farkas on the shoulder and nodded his thanks. Farkas let go, hesitantly, but he didn't fall over. He did, however, hold on to the side of the cart while making his way to the back and the coffin.

"We'll carry her," Vilkas informed him, stepping in front and heading him off. Aela came up next to him, Athis and Ria behind her, Njada and Torvar behind them. Farkas remained with Vorstag, keeping a close eye on the grieving widower, alert for any more signs of distress or fatigue. The Companions took the coffin out of the cart, passing it down until they had the weight distributed evenly among themselves. Then, Farkas and Vorstag in the front, Vilkas and Aela leading the pallbearers, they entered the city gates.

There were even more people lined up within the city. Vorstag couldn't recognize them all, but somewhere in the back of his head, he was sure Gerhild could have named each and every one. He didn't speak, no one spoke other than a few quiet whispers, while they processed through the streets of Whiterun.

They passed the smithy, Adrianne taking a break from her work so as not to disturb them, her husband Ulfberth also stepping outside their shop to pay his respects.

They passed the ruins of Breezehome, the scarred foundation stones looking as dark and sober as the occasion warranted.

They passed the small market, the vendors halting their bartering cries, the patrons spilling out of the Bannered Mare, all to stare and gawk in disbelief.

They climbed the stairs and passed the Gildergreen, and Vorstag stumbled. Here he had married his love. Here he had promised their lives would be one. Had that only been a year ago? Could so much have changed in so short a time? Farkas grabbed his arm and held him fast, not letting go this time, being the support that he thought Vorstag needed.

They turned away from the Gildergreen and started up the steps to Jorrvaskr. By the Nine, but his legs were tired, not used to all the climbing. He reached the top and had to pause, winded, leaning on Farkas more than he would have wanted. The others came around the side of him, carrying their Dragonborn, their duty, with sober solemnity.

"Stop!" a voice cried out, ringing with authority, a voice Vorstag knew, had known for years. He didn't turn around but waited for the pompous ass to come to him. "I demand you cease this farce at once. Where is Gerhild?"

Vorstag looked up into the face of Thongvor, the Jarl of Markarth. His voice was deceptively gentle as he answered, "In the coffin."

Thongvor scoffed. "Not likely. I see this for what it truly is: you two are faking her death. The immediate burning of the body is to keep anyone from finding out that that is not the real Gerhild!" He pointed his finger accusingly, first at Vorstag, then at the coffin.

"Your Majesty, please, keep your voice down and reconsider your accusations…" Vilkas nearly left his post, torn between carrying Gerhild's body the last few steps and preventing a scene.

"Majesty?" Vorstag repeated, the next moment realizing what was meant. "You mean, you're the new High King?"

Thongvor pulled himself up to his full height. "I am, since Gerhild was too cowardly to take the throne herself. And I know she's not dead. She can't be. You're faking her death somehow, and I'm going to prove it!"

Before anyone could react, he threw himself at the Companions. There were shouts of consternation, cries of alarm, and more than a couple moans as Companions and coffin fell to the cobblestones.

The coffin was not very well made, Vorstag grudgingly admitted, but well enough considering the tools he had to work with. The wood cracked, the lid falling askew and one side bursting open. The body fell out partway, the fabric coming free from the head, the helmet rolling loose to land at Argis' feet. The large Nord had heard the commotion and came outside to see what was the matter. He picked up the helmet, Gerhild's helmet, and turned it over and over in his hands.

"What is this?" he asked, his one good eye glinting in the midday sun. He blinked when he recognized Vorstag. "Vorstag! I knew you'd be coming back. Where's Lady Gerhild? She dropped her helmet."

No one seemed able to answer him. Finally Vorstag cleared his throat and motioned to the corpse. "She died, Argis, remember? She was gassed, captured, and poisoned by a rogue Thalmor agent."

"I…" Argis tried, opening and closing his mouth. Then he shook his head, "Nope, Lady Gerhild isn't dead. Saw her just the other day."

"You see?" Thongvor pressed his point, "Her own housecarl admits she's alive."

"You've been here for over a week," Farkas gently reminded him.

"Argis is a little forgetful, you know that," Vilkas waved the objection aside.

The housecarl in question, however, had just noticed the body. He stepped up to it, his eyes wide, and dropped to his knees beside it, drawing everyone's attention to the corpse. "My… Thane…?" was all he managed before he started to weep.

If there had been any doubt, any vain hope that this was some sort of ruse, no one voiced such thoughts now. The face could clearly be seen. The eyes were open and filmy, their blue depths lost forever. The skin was sunken and leathery, twisting the mouth and distorting the bow shaped lips into some eternal scream or war cry. And the golden hair was done up in those intricate braids only Gerhild knew how to make.

They knew it was the Dragonborn.

It was probably the sight of such a strong man weeping that made him do it. Vorstag shook off Farkas' helping hands, his thin lips pressed so tightly together they disappeared. In two strides he'd closed the distance between himself and Thongvor. Another heartbeat later, and his fist connected with Thongvor's jaw. The High King of Skyrim fell to the ground like a stone.

Vorstag didn't stand and gloat over his vanquished foe. He turned his back and walked over to Argis, kneeling down next to him and saying in a soft voice, "Put the helmet back on her head. Good, now help me get her back into the coffin." Awkwardly they shifted her back under cover.

There was a crowd, the whole of Whiterun witnessing the show. Thongvor struggled to his feet, his face reddening with embarrassment and anger. But he was stymied before he could say anything. "You should leave," Vilkas told him. "Now. You are not welcomed at this place. Nor is your presence needed at the funeral rites tonight." He turned his back on the High King and reached down to offer Vorstag a hand up.

"The others can prepare Gerhild for the pyre. Let's get you inside. I'm sure you wanna see your little boy again; it's been almost a month since you left him with us. And we should get that hand looked at. It'd be a shame if you broke anything."

Vorstag didn’t speak, he couldn’t, his vision filled with the macabre scene that had just played out. And the look of anguish on Argis’ face, as if Gerhild had died right then, right in front of him. Aye, Vorstag had had the time to get used to the idea, but for Argis—for everyone else—this was new and fresh and hard to accept. He walked inside Jorrvaskr and stumbled down the steps towards the central hearth and Tilma, tears welling in his own eyes upon seeing his son in the ancient housekeeper’s arms. Stuhn’s Shield, but he couldn’t wait for this day to be over with.

* * *

Supper that night was early, a quiet affair with minimal drinking. That would change later that night, after the pyre, when there would be songs and drinks and remembrances. But for the meal, there was still the cloud of dark and sober depression filling the hearts and minds of all the Companions and their few honored guests.

Vorstag sat quietly through it all, Hamming in his arms, his food barely touched. His right hand was bandaged, the healing potion working to mend the broken bones and close the cuts, but he wouldn't be fully healed until sometime during the night. The babe was unaware of what was going on around him, of why only his Papa was there and not his Mama, and Vorstag had to admit it was probably for the best. Though over and over he heard others whisper, what a shame it would be, for the babe to grow up never having known his mother.

It was with no small amount of relief that Eorlund came down from the forge. He looked tired, sweaty, more than a few smudges of soot on his arms and chest. But he was confident as he stood there and addressed the whole of them, "We're ready."

Vilkas nodded his thanks and looked to Vorstag. "When do you want to start?"

Vorstag looked up, taking in the Harbinger's face, the other Companions, Steward Vignar and Jarl Balgruuf—Vilkas had meant it when he said he would deny Thongvor attendance. No one said anything, their eyes on him, waiting expectantly for his signal. He gave it.

Carefully, his knees still a little shaky and stiff, he pushed himself to his feet.

"You want me to carry Hamming for you?" Farkas offered, already at his side. Vorstag shook his head. He had to do this. He had to do this one last thing, make it through this one final night, then the worst of it would be over.

Outside the summer air had cooled beneath the force of nightfall, a welcomed relief to Vorstag. He led the procession up the stairs to the Skyforge and was the first to see it. Eorlund had done an exceptional job, the coffin lying atop a neatly stacked pyre. The wood looked dry, evenly spaced to allow air to circulate through and feed the flames, which in turn would burn the body faster. The coffin had been tastefully draped with a rich velvet throw, hiding the broken bits—and the body inside—from view. Flowers, too, had been strewn around the pyre and forge and where the people would be standing. Vorstag took his place near the front, ignoring the chair that had been placed there for his use, and waited for the rest to arrive.

He stared at the forge to pass the time, his mind wandering idly. He'd never really looked at it before, always more interested in the steel being made, or the sparring sessions below at Jorrvaskr. He looked at the forge now, at the large bird that rose up behind it, protecting it, watching over it. He could easily imagine this bird, this forge, had once been intended for use in funerals, the souls of champions lifting with the smoke, all the while the guardian bird looked on with its glowing eyes.

Vilkas was standing next to him. He gave a gentle cough and bumped his shoulder, breaking him out of his thoughts. Vorstag would have blushed, his mind wandering at his own wife's funeral, but he was too exhausted. He passed Hamming over to Argis, unable to hold both the babe and the torch he would later be using to light the pyre. Then he turned to face the crowd.

"Her name was Gerhild of Skyrim," he began. "Oh, sure, she had many other names. Daughter of Maeganna Battle-Maiden and Ulgaarth North-Wind. Ward of Ulfric Stormcloak. Thane of Whiterun. Thane of Markarth. Dragonborn."

There was the sound of distant thunder at this, and from his vantage point, looking out over everyone else, he could see a flash of light high atop the Throat of the World.

"The only name she ever cared about, though, was Gerhild. Gerhild of Skyrim. She wasn't much for elaborate celebrations and week-long festivities, though she did know how to dress in fine gowns and rich jewelry. No, what Gerhild truly wanted was a simple life. A peaceful life. A normal life. She longed for it. Fought for it. Risked her life for it. But in the end," he shrugged, keeping a watchful eye on the sky, "A simple life wasn't hers to live. I know for a fact," he turned and picked up the lit torch with his left hand, hastening things along a bit, "That she wouldn't want all this fuss over her death. But, again, that wasn't hers to have, either." He turned and tossed the torch into the pyre. He watched as the wood immediately ignited, the flames taking hold quickly. Then he faced those gathered one last time, his voice struggling not to break. "Go ahead. Have your festivities. Celebrate her life. Rejoice in her accomplishments. Remember her, and remember all she's done for you. For tonight," he lifted his face, "The Dragonborn dines in Sovngarde!"

A cheer rose up, strong and sure in its conviction that he spoke the truth. Vorstag retook his place and his son, allowing others to file past and throw a torch on the pyre if they wished. He also accepted condolences, most of them sincere and heartfelt, from each and every one who wanted to give them. At long last, however, the crowd began to thin, many thinking to head to the Bannered Mare, or to Jorrvaskr if they were of the lucky few—Dragonsreach if they weren't—and begin their toasting. Before they had gone too far, however, a strange sound rent the night sky.

Vorstag didn't look up with the others. He knew this was coming, had been keeping an eye on it for some time. He didn't gawk when the ancient dragon passed overhead. He didn't jump when its keening sounded, echoing off of buildings and ringing down streets. He didn't duck when it swooped down to add its breath to the pyre. Nor did he watch it turn, taking up its song of mourning once more, as it winged its way back to the Throat of the World.

"By the Nine!" Vilkas swallowed, his eyes still wide as he stared at the retreating dragon. "What was that?"

"Paarthurnax," was Vorstag's cryptic reply.

"I thought," he paused to swallow again, "I thought, for a moment there, with Gerhild dead, being that she was Dragonborn and all, that the dragon was going to attack."

"No, the dragons won't attack. They'll keep her law to leave people alone; Paarthurnax will see to it."

Vilkas eyed him warily, but Vorstag wouldn't turn away from the pyre. The coffin was nearly consumed. It shouldn't be much longer he'd have to stand there.

"What are you gonna do," Vilkas asked, "Now that she's gone? Have you given it any thought?"

Vorstag took a deep breath, seeming to come out of his trance. "What? Oh, travel."

"Travel?"

"Aye, travel," Vorstag turned from the forge and started walking down the stairs to Jorrvaskr. "I've always wanted to see the world, see more of Tamriel than just Skyrim, at any rate. And I've been all over—and under—Skyrim thanks to Gerhild. I think we'll head out and take a look at Cyrodiil, Hamming and I. Argis and Maniel, too, if they wanna come along. I can certainly afford it; Gerhild's collected quite a fortune in the years she's been adventuring. Besides," he sighed looking around the streets of Whiterun, the Gildergreen, the Temple, Dragonsreach, "Everything here holds too many memories of her. It would be better for Hamming, too, if he didn't have to grow up in the shadow of a mother he'll never know."

"Aye, I suppose so, but…"

"But what?" Vorstag asked, slightly curious.

"But will you come back? Someday? Even just to visit?"

Vorstag had to look away. "I honestly don't know."

* * *

It was early fall. The leaves were already changing color, snow having fallen higher up the mountainside during the night. Argis was outside the manor house, working on chopping wood, his axe swinging rhythmically, steadily, the pile growing. He needed to make sure they had enough wood to see them through the night. That's what Vorstag told him to do; make sure they had enough to see them through the night.

He swung into a thicker chunk, the axe only penetrating halfway. He was about to pull it free when he looked up and saw a stranger approaching. It was a woman, he was fairly sure, judging by the way she sat her saddle. She wore a long cloak, hood pulled up over her face, most of her features in shadow.

Argis forgot about chopping wood, coming around the corner of the house to meet the stranger. She halted her horse next to a stack of hay, in about the area where Vorstag wanted to build the stables come spring, and made like she was going to dismount. He walked up and took hold of the bridle, helping to keep the horse steady while she got off her horse. "Can I… help you…?" he asked, curious and cautious.

The woman turned to face him. "Hello, Argis. Is Vorstag at home?"

He didn't know the voice, but there was something familiar about the face. Deciding that anyone he sort of recognized had to be a friend—he understood now that he had trouble remembering some things, and trusted Vorstag to remind him of what he needed to know—he nodded pleasantly and answered, "Aye, in the house. Probably find him in the kitchen, preparing supper. You're welcomed to stay and eat with us, if you'd like."

She smiled, a perfect dimple marring her perfect cheek. "Thank you, Argis, I think I will stay."

She left him and entered the house. Inside it was warm, cozy, and still in a state of remodeling. She walked slowly through the front entryway, passed into the main hall, and wondered on which side he would have put the kitchen. The sound of clanging pots and a half muttered curse gave her the answer. She walked up to the door, leaning on the frame, and took a moment to gaze at Vorstag, bending over a pot, sweating in the heated room.

It was as if he could feel her eyes upon him. He turned, taking his attention briefly from the pot, and immediately smiled. "Hello, my love. You must have had quite an adventure, I bet."

She nodded, unable to speak. He set the pot off to the side, away from the heat, before stalking up to her and wrapping her in his arms. "Gerhild," he breathed, kissing her lips, her cheek, her hair, her nose, her tears. "Gerhild."

Still she didn't speak. Not until he'd loosened his hold on her, not releasing her but allowing her some air. "Vorstag, my heart."

"Your… voice…?" he asked, his puppy-dog eyes turning sad. "What happened?"

Gerhild shrugged, "She was gone."

Vorstag paused a moment before he pulled her with him further into the kitchen, wiped off a stool for her to sit upon, and handed over a sweet roll he had made that morning. "Alright," he commanded, returning to cooking supper, "Start at the beginning, and tell me everything that happened."

"After we parted ways in Haafingar," she picked at a bit of frosting, "I made my way as quickly and quietly as possible to Riften, just like we planned, thinking we'd have the face sculptor remove the scars the healing potion gave me. But she wasn't in her room; looked like she hadn't been there since around the last time we saw her. I don't know what happened; I couldn't very well stick around and ask questions, or I'd make the thieves nervous. They were already getting curious, and no one's supposed to know I'm alive, so I had to leave without finding where she'd gone or what had happened to make her leave."

"Of course," he took a break from cooking to pass her a glass of alto wine. "So, with the sculptor gone, you still have your scars. And your voice is, er…" He found he lost his voice, too, unable to believe she had lost her Voice forever.

She nodded, tears blurring her vision. When she spoke, she sounded like she was trying to convince herself more than her husband. "Oh, Vorstag, it's not so bad, is it? Not my voice, but my Voice. If I can never Shout again…"

"Easy, easy, my love, easy," he gave off trying to fix supper in favor of fixing his wife. He wrapped his massive arms around her and held her as she cried. "Of course it's not so bad," he affirmed, instilling as much confidence in the tone as he could spare. "It's not bad at all. The Dragonborn is dead, remember? No one's gonna come looking for you, asking you to Shout at someone or something. That part of your life, our lives, is all over now. Let it be over, my heart. Live your life with me."

She nodded, the top of her head rubbing the underside of his chin. Then she sniffed, pulled back, and offered him a brave little smile. "I… I took some more time… to travel to High Hrothgar… to speak with Arngeir and Paarthurnax. I felt they needed to know what happened, and it's not like they're gonna tell anyone our secret."

"He was at your funeral," Vorstag said, stepping back and returning to supper. "The old dragon, I mean."

She nodded, returning to her sweet roll, "He told me. Said you had nerves of steel, that you're still worthy of being my mate. He continues to think of me as the Dragonborn, Voice or no."

"But…" Vorstag heard the hesitation.

Gerhild sighed. "Arngeir did gloat. A bit. He felt it was just punishment, from Kyne, for the way I misused my gift. I don't know," she got up off the stool and started to walk around the kitchen, poking into cupboards, peeking into barrels, scanning along shelves. Vorstag would make sure the kitchen was the first finished room in their home. "I suppose he might have a point; I did not follow the Way of the Voice. But then again, that wasn't what I was supposed to do, was it?"

"Don't see how," he agreed, adding a few seasonings to the pot. "But think of it this way: you don't need the Voice any longer, so it doesn't matter."

She spied Hamming. "No, it doesn't, but I'm sure gonna miss it. Why do you have our son in a crate?"

Vorstag looked up from the stew, blinking. "What? Oh! Well, had to keep an eye on him, didn't I, while I was cooking. He's happy in there, has his toys, can't get out or get into trouble."

She gave him the look a wife gives her husband when she thinks he's being unreasonable, while truthfully he's being quiet logical and practical. Naturally, he ignored the look.

Gerhild bent over and picked up her son, who was enthusiastically chewing and drooling over one of his many toys. She returned to her stool, content to watch Vorstag cook while holding Hamming. Yet she had to know one thing, "And… Norilar?"

"Don't ask," he answered. He must have heard her silence, as he turned to look her full in the eyes. "He's taken care of, my love. Dead. It's over. Leave it at that.  So," he wisely changed the subject, pausing to taste the venison stew, "You do anything after High Hrothgar?"

She shook her head, rocking their son, then realized he could see her. "Nope. Came straight home."

"Didn't even stop in Riverwood? See Ralof?"

"I wanted to see my husband and son first," she gently reminded him. "You told him, I hope."

Vorstag nodded. "We're gonna need someone who can go into Whiterun on our behalf, from time to time, for supplies and such. He missed your funeral. Said he didn't want to believe you were dead, and going there… seeing your body burn… would mean that you were truly gone…"

She felt her heart break, hearing such pain in his voice. "It wasn't easy for you, was it? I'm so sorry, my love, I thought… we all thought it would work…"

Vorstag pulled the stew off the heat again, this time because it was ready. "It did work," he admitted, grabbing a towel to wipe the sweat off his face. "Taking the body Norilar had used for his Black Sacrament. Everyone thought that poor girl was you. Especially when Thongvor knocked the coffin over and she fell out part way. I'm glad you decided to braid her hair. I mean, she was a close match for you in build, and dressed in your armor with her body already decomposing, no one could prove it wasn't you. But when they saw her hair braided as you braid your hair," he turned to carry the pot to the nearby table, as there wasn't one in the main hall yet, "No one argued after that."

"Thongvor was there?"

"He's the new High King."

"Stuhn protect us."

"Aye." Vorstag began grabbing bowls, caught himself when he only grabbed three, and went back for a fourth. "I punched him."

"You what?" she asked, bringing spoons over to the table for them to use.

"Well, I was playing the part of the grieving widower," he hedged, "And, er, he had knocked over your coffin, exposing your body, disrespecting you, and I had to do something, right? So I hit him. Dropped him flat on his ass." He looked up, giving her that shit-eating grin she loved so much.

She couldn't help the laugh that bubbled out of her chest.

"Oh! Ah, hello again," Argis' voice sounded from the doorway. They turned to see him there, arms full of wood for the fire, his expression slightly confused.

"Argis, could you get another bottle of wine from the cellar? You know Gerhild prefers that to mead." Vorstag kept his voice calm, steady, reassuring, as if this sort of thing happened every day—someone coming back from the dead.

"Right! You do prefer wine, don't you, my Thane. I'll, er, I'll be right back." He set the wood down in a heap and started for the trapdoor to the cellar.

Gerhild sighed, watching him, rubbing her cheek against her son's soft brown hair. "He won't recover any further, will he?"

"Probably not," Vorstag agreed. "He's agreeable most days, and he understands now that his memory isn't so good, but he goes along with whatever I tell him. His memory from years ago is still intact. We like to sit around the fire in the evenings and tell stories. Maniel seems to enjoy them."

"Have you told Maniel about Riften yet?"

"No!" A moment later and he blushed, something he hadn't done in years, and had to laugh at himself, realizing she was teasing him. "No, ah, we'll save that story for a few years yet, if you don't mind."

She laughed again.

"Auntie Hilde!" a little boy cried, coming up to hug her from behind.

"Manny!" she answered, surprised by the nickname but grateful for the love. "Where were you hiding?"

"I wasn't hiding. I was in the library. I was… Oh!" he slapped his hand over his mouth, "I wasn't supposed to tell."

Vorstag's face fell. He turned to look at Gerhild and confessed. "It was supposed to be a surprise. You know that tower we thought we'd build on the south corner? I've started filling in the bottom room with shelves, adding in some books. Thought you might like that."

She smiled, "Of course I do. Thank you."

"I've brought the wine," Argis announced, coming in behind Maniel. "If the stew's done, and it smells like it's done, let's eat!"

No one argued with that. Everyone sat down at the table, Gerhild taking a seat next to Vorstag, Hamming still on her lap. Oh, Merciful Mara, but this felt good, to be home, surrounded by those she loved, knowing all her obligations—her Fate—had been fulfilled, her story finished.


	20. Epilogue

All in all, Hamming thought he had a pretty good life.

It could be better, he supposed, if he lived in a palace and had servants to do his chores, but this wasn't so bad. He did live in a big house. And he never wanted for anything important like food or clothing. Though he didn't have any little brothers or sisters to make do his chores, he did have his cousin, Maniel. He knew Maniel wasn't really his cousin, but Maniel's Pa and his Pa acted like brothers, and they were raised together in the same house, so he figured it was close enough. Besides, Maniel was pretty cool. He liked to read, a lot, which—though Hamming himself felt reading was a waste of time—he surprisingly found Maniel's obsession advantageous. Whenever Uncle Argis, Maniel's Pa, would look for him to practice swordplay, he'd go off somewhere to hide and read, and Hamming would distract Argis by asking to practice instead. Maniel got his books, Hamming got his practice; it worked out fairly well.

He chewed on a blade of grass, thinking. Uncle Argis was a strange man, but not in a bad way. Ma explained it once, how Argis had been real sick for a long time, and it left him a little confused now and then. But he never got angry, and it was always easy to distract him if Hamming decided he didn't want to chop wood or weed the garden or clean the stables. And some evenings, when he and Pa would sit around the hearth, they'd tell stories from when they were young men. Argis had been a legionnaire; he had lots of stories of far away lands.

Hamming crossed his arms behind his head, staring up at the clouds. He was lying on his back next to the river, not too far from the sawmill where Uncle Ralof worked. Oh, Ralof wasn't a real uncle, either, but Hamming didn't mind the unusual, extended family. Ralof was fun to talk with; he'd been a soldier, too. He'd been in the Civil War. He'd met Ulfric Stormcloak. He'd even met the Dragonborn! And he always had a real good story about some long ago battle between Nords and Imperials.

Hamming liked stories. Listening to them, anyway, not reading them. Ma would try every day to get him to practice his letters, and he would try every day to find an excuse not to—sometimes he'd succeed. Then she'd roll her eyes and say he was his father's son. Whatever that meant…

"Hamming!" a voice called out, and he recognized it as belonging to Uncle Ralof.

"Here," he answered a little disgruntled, sitting up so his head could be seen behind an old tree stump. He felt disappointment, figuring his free time was over. Ralof would undoubtedly be sending him home, probably because his Ma was looking for him. Hopefully it wasn't because he was in trouble or anything; he had finished his chores, most of them, kinda…

"What are you doing back here?" Ralof asked, striding up to him.

"Just watching the clouds. Uncle Ralof, you've traveled a lot," he attempted to distract him, "Have you ever been to Bleak Falls Barrow?" He referred to the ruins overlooking Riverwood.

Ralof was not Argis, however, and would not be distracted. "No, but your Ma has. And she's looking for you. I think you'd better get home; it's nearly time for supper."

"Aye," he sighed, but had to try one more time. "How about Whiterun? Ever been there?"

Ralof fell into step beside the boy. "Fairly often, 'bout once or twice a year."

"Can I go with you next time?"

Ralof cleared his throat, "Ask your Mother."

Hamming knew what that meant. "She'll say no. She always does. Uncle Ralof, why doesn't she wanna leave Riverwood. Not to move away or anything, but just to see other places. Visit them. I can see Whiterun from my house, but I've never been there, and I'm almost thirteen years old."

Ralof set his hand on Hamming's shoulder. "Ask your Mother and Father. They should be the ones to explain it to you."

"Are we in danger?" he asked suddenly. "Are there people after us, so we gotta hide? Are my parents wanted by the law?"

Ralof chuckled, "No, nothing so dramatic. Gods, but you have a flair for expounding a story. Go home. Ask your Mother and Father to tell you. I think, if you're old enough to ask the question, you're old enough to hear the answer."

"Oh, that I already know about," Hamming rolled his eyes, "Cousin Maniel explained girls to me last summer."

Ralof coughed, his face reddening. "Aye, well, that's good. Now go home."

"Aye, Uncle Ralof. See ya tomorrow." With a confident wave, Hamming started running down the path that led to his home.

It didn't take the young man too long to reach his house. He'd been growing lately, a lot or so his Ma claimed, but his legs were long and he discovered he could cover a lot of ground if he put his mind to it. He reached his home almost before his Ma, who had probably gone all the way to Riverwood to find Ralof to find him.

"Hi, Ma!"

"Oh!" she exclaimed, caught off guard. "Hamming! Where have you been?"

"Down by the mill," he answered. He slipped around her and opened the door to let her go inside first. He'd seen Pa do stuff like that for her all the time, and it always worked to get her in a good mood, so he thought he might try it himself.

He pretended he didn't see the look on her face, but he had the feeling that she hadn't been fooled. "Did you finish your chores?"

He tried not to think about how messy the hay bales were stacked. "Aye…"

She blew a heavy breath out of her nostrils, unimpressed by his less-than-confident answer. He was going to have to distract her if he wanted to stay out of trouble. "Ma, can I go in to town with Uncle Ralof, the next time he goes?"

"In to Riverwood?" she asked.

He wasn't sure if she was confused or being deliberately thick. "To Whiterun."

Her lips grew stiff and stern. "No."

"He already said I could, if you said I could."

"I said no," she repeated.

"Love," Pa came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands, "What is going on?"

"Uncle Ralof said I could go to Whiterun with him, the next time he goes, if it's alright with you."

His Ma and Pa exchanged a look; apparently his tactic of asking Pa instead of Ma wasn't going to work, either.

"I don't think so…" Pa started, watching Ma's face carefully, "It's too dangerous."

"Why?" Hamming pressed, sensing a weakness or an opening to finally unraveling this mystery. "Why can't I go? Why can't any of us go? We've never been further than Riverwood for as long as I can remember, my whole life."

"Thirteen years is hardly a long time…" Ma rolled her eyes.

"Maybe not to you, but it is to me; it's my entire life. Pa," he turned to the gentler of his parents, "Pa, what happened? Why are we hiding here? Are you and Ma in trouble?"

"We're not in trouble, no…"

"It's complicated," Ma stamped an end on the conversation, or tried to. "Now, go wash up. Supper's almost ready."

Hamming made one last attempt, daring himself to be brave and defy his Ma. "Uncle Ralof said if I'm old enough to ask the question, I'm old enough to hear the answer. And I'm asking: why do we never leave home?"

"Oh, Uncle Ralof said that, did he…" Ma growled. She normally talked very softly, her voice kinda husky. It was something Hamming liked, the softness, like her voice was constantly overflowing with love. But, on occasion, the huskiness sounded like growling, like it did tonight.

Pa tossed the towel over his shoulder and walked up to Ma. "He's right, ya know. I think maybe Hamming is old enough to understand. He needs to learn the truth sooner or later."

Ma pouted. Usually her word was law, what chores to do, when to go to bed, when to get up, what to learn like swordplay or letters. But sometimes, when it was warranted, Pa could change her mind or override her objections. Hamming held his breath, hoping this was one of those times.

"Aye, fine, I suppose you're right. But you tell him," she set herself down at the table in the main hall. "You're the bard, after all."

Pa nodded soberly. "Alright. Let's see, where to begin," he walked over to a cask he and Argis kept near the hearth, full of mead. He poured himself a mug, and almost as an afterthought, he took a smaller cup and filled it and set it down in front of Hamming. He couldn't believe his luck; it was rare indeed when they'd let him drink mead. He looked to his Ma, silently asking permission, and she gave him a small nod.

Smiling, feeling like he had passed some test, achieved some goal, finally became an adult, he picked up the cup and took a sip as his Pa began the story.

"It started a long time ago, not very far from here in fact, in a little town called Helgen…"

The End of _'Soul of a Dragon'_

The End of the series _'A North-Wind in Skyrim'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stuhn's Shield, but this turned out long! I want to say this, one last time: thank you, all of you. Thank you to those who've been with me since I started this epoch. Thank you to those who've picked me up partway through. Thank you to those who continued to read, even after the story got dark, even after long spaces between postings, even after I got distracted by other fanfics. Thank you to those who only now began reading this—after it was finished, after all was said and done. You, all of you, are the reason I write.
> 
> I kinda want to tear up now, knowing there are no more scenes to write, no more chapters to post, that Gerhild's story is finished. This was my first fanfic (that I shared with anyone), and it's kinda hard to let go. I've learned so much, grown so much as a writer, made so many friends… But all things come to an end, and stories especially need an ending. I hope this one is satisfactory.
> 
> Much love.
> 
> ~Chalybeous


End file.
